


The Floating World

by Amber (popslash_archivist)



Category: Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 22:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 38,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9205568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popslash_archivist/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Archived from JustSoPretty





	1. Chapter 1

**  
**

JC's stomach hurt. Every time the coach hit a bump and bounced up off its wooden frame, hanging in the air for a moment before landing with a loud thump, his stomach twisted, making his breath catch. He heard a cracking sound and felt the boards under his knees shifting and widening. He sat back on his heels. His feet had fallen asleep hours ago and the prickling deadening sensation was crawling up his legs like an itch.

The carriage was lightweight; a simple frame covered by silk hangings. It was designed to be carried by humans, hoisted onto two sets of shoulders. Horses moved faster than people though, and he had a long way to travel. He could hear the horses breathing.

JC had never seen horses before--not up close, anyway--and he'd wanted to look at them, but his father had told him not to open the curtains for anything. He hadn't told JC it would grow hot inside the carriage, and JC had forgotten what sunlight could feel like, how intense it could be. By midday it had gotten so hot that he'd felt sweat bead at the top of his head and roll down, dripping off him like rain.

The carriage slowed. They were passing through another village. JC heard the occasional voice calling out to the driver, asking who was inside. The driver never answered, just yelled, "Move!" JC pushed his hair out of his eyes and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the carriage swaying back and forth slightly as people walked by and brushed against the curtains, they moved forward again. The carriage jarred over a rut in the road and tilted up just a little, one of the curtains parting just enough to show the road ahead. It was steep and curved, winding into and around the mountain.

JC shifted, sliding so he was sitting with his legs straight out in front of him. His father had stressed the importance of sitting the correct way for the entire journey, of making sure his robes didn't get wrinkled, of keeping his hair neat and his face clean. JC had already known these things but nodded in agreement anyway, eager to see his father's smile. The fabric covering his legs was hopelessly bunched up into creases, the embroidered patterns of his robes lost in wrinkles. The ends of his hair, resting against his face and neck, were wet with sweat. JC curled and uncurled his toes until they woke up and wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. When he drew it away it was marked with the paint he'd put on his eyebrows before he'd left, dark smudges against his skin.

He closed his eyes and thought _I am not afraid._

The air grew colder as they went farther and farther up the mountain and the villages grew further and further between. JC fell asleep when the light passing through the curtains was tinted pink and red, and woke up in total darkness. The horses walked slowly and he could hear how tired they were, the labored sounds of their breathing. His own chest felt tight, and his lungs hurt with every breath he took. He'd heard that the air on mountains was different--lighter, his father had told him, like a god's breath. JC missed the air in his father's house, the warm salty smell of it, the way the sounds of the ocean seemed to reach down into one's ears, one's lungs. He missed the damp taste of it. Here the air didn't taste or smell like anything and there didn't seem to be enough of it.

The carriage stopped suddenly, the horses protesting with low snorting wheezes. The driver's voice turned suddenly deferential. It didn't feel like they were passing through a village; JC didn't smell the familiar scents of rice and dirt and sweat, didn't hear the clatter and hum of homes, of people working. He heard someone talking to the driver, too softly for him to make out any words.

The curtains parted suddenly, and JC blinked as light shone into his face, his eyes. At first all he could make out was the edges of a torch, its bright flame and the wooden pole attached to it. Then a face came into view. Broad and full, a man smiling. He had a beard. JC had never seen anyone with a beard before. He lowered his eyes.

"Welcome," the man said. "We didn't expect you so soon. The journey from the coast usually takes two days."

JC wasn't sure what to say. He finally settled for, "I'm sorry," using the most formal form of address he knew.

The man with the beard was silent, and JC finally glanced back up at him. The man was looking at him thoughtfully, his head tilted a little to one side.

"The Lady isn't at home," he said slowly, "but perhaps that's for the best. You look tired." He turned back towards the driver and the curtains fell closed. After a moment, the carriage jolted forward again. JC took big gulping breaths but spots still danced in front of his eyes. He didn't think he'd ever get his breath back. His whole body ached.

A few minutes later he found himself stiffly climbing down out of the carriage. The house that waited for him was enormous and dark, the outline dimly visible in the light from the torches that burned by the front door. JC stood quietly until the man with the beard came and picked up his trunk, walking towards the house. He called out "Watch your step," over his shoulder.

The ground was uneven and rocky and after so many hours in the carriage, JC's legs felt heavy and boneless, almost unusable. Inside the house was wide and quiet. He couldn't see anything but dark floors and darker spaces that led off into hallways and rooms. It was the largest home he'd ever been inside. He followed the man with the beard down one hallway and then another. They stopped in front of a sliding paper screen painted with cranes. The man with the beard slid the screen open silently, his large hands deft and sure, and all JC could tell was that the room was large, larger than his room in the city for sure, perhaps larger than his father's entire house, and very dark.

"I'm sorry there aren't any lights," the bearded man said, and put JC's trunk down. "If you wish, I can wake a servant for them."

JC bit his lip. He should, if only to establish his place, make it clear that his needs were few but important due to whom he was to be tied to, but he was tired and unsure of everything. He wished his father hadn't paid so much for the journey to take place in one day.

"Thank you, no," he said and bowed his head slightly.

The bearded man smiled at him. "I'm the Lady's Steward," he said, "I'll send someone to you in the morning." He showed JC where the bed was, helped him unfold the frame and unroll the mats. He pointed out everything in the room matter-of-factly, changing area, bathing room, how to open the window shutters. JC listened and wondered what sort of house he was in, where the steward performed tasks that a houseboy should do.

"Sleep well," the Steward said formally, and left, sliding the screen closed behind him. JC opened the shutters and stared out the window. The moon shone thick and full, the same as it did everywhere. JC felt comforted, and slept.

 

 

 

A boy came in the morning. He was young, maybe ten, with hair the color of straw and a gap between his front teeth. He was carrying a cedar tub larger than he was and he put it in the middle of the floor, then sat down and started to unpack JC's trunk.

A helper. JC had never had one. He'd always thought the talk of servants he'd heard during training, talk of those who did nothing but help house concubines, was mostly wishful thinking. Even when his mother had visited his father regularly there had never been more than a temporary hired houseboy or two, a squinting scowling stranger washing their clothes and helping JC's father with his hair. JC could barely remember the time when his mother had visited, had just faint memories of the almond scent of his father's hair and the low murmurs of his mother's voice reaching him through the wall of his room as he woke up in the mornings. Until he was seven his mother had just been a voice he'd overheard.

JC watched the boy unpack his clothes, transferring the folded robes carefully from JC's chest to a cupboard built into the wall. The boy moved the shoes last, taking them out slowly, his hands smoothing over the silk carefully, one finger curled around a trailing ribbon.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" JC said.

The boy jumped, visibly startled, and moved his hands away. Then he turned and looked at JC, wide-eyed and hesitant.

"They are," he said. He spoke in the heavily accented tone of a peasant, stressing the first and last syllable of each word. JC had once talked like that. He could still remember the mouth full of pebbles his father had forced him to speak around for months before he'd left for the city, training him how to slur his words properly, to let the syllables all run together like a song. "A melodic voice," his father had said, "is pleasing to a woman's ear."

He and the boy looked at each other for a moment. Then the boy put the shoes in the cupboard, slid the door closed, and said, "I'll go get water?"

"Yes," JC said. "Warm it, please." It was the first order he'd ever given anyone.

The boy smiled and left. Ten minutes later JC was soaking in warm scented water, watching someone else straighten his room, pick out his clothes, set out everything that would be needed to fix his hair.

"You've done well," his father had said to him the day the broker came with the final papers. JC had nodded like he'd understood and even thought he did, but he'd had no idea.

He rose from the tub once his skin started to wrinkle and the boy hauled it away silently then came back and held up the first robe JC needed to put on. JC held out his arms. Getting dressed normally took him several hours. He was good with arranging robes; he was patient, and he liked the flow of fabric, the folds that could be created. But it was easier, much easier, to have someone help settle the robes on his shoulders, to knot the cords in the back and to help fold the edges of the collars.

"Thank you," JC said as he tied the last cord in place, looping it into a knot right below his waist. He paused, waiting for a name.

"Boy," the boy said, and smiled. "You haven't had servants before, have you?"

JC shook his head no.

"Titles," Boy said matter-of-factly, sounding so much like a teacher that JC bit his lip so he wouldn't smile. "You don't call servants by their names."

"So what do you call me?" JC thought of the etiquette instructor he'd studied with in the city, the long dull gray-white curve of his mustache, and the yellow whites of his eyes, the way he'd said, "Once I'm done with you, you won't be such a country fool, boy." Even he hadn't known of houses like this, had taught that only with careful and dedicated work could one hope to attain one's own servant. JC hadn't done anything yet, and already he had someone to serve him.

"What you are to the Lady," the boy said in a mixture of surprise and admonition. "Her Beloved."

JC turned away to hide his smile. It probably wasn't polite to smile at all, but Boy was so serious. JC thought having servants might take some getting used to.

He sat down on a wooden stool by the low table that held everything he needed to finish getting dressed. Boy rubbed sweet almond oil into his hair to shape it, pushing all the curls down with surprisingly strong fingers. Some of them still sprang back anyway and JC showed him how to push them under the rest of his hair, tucking them in. When Boy was done smoothing JC's hair he pushed it back, behind his ears, then rubbed oil on his earlobes to make them shine. JC told him how to rub what was left on his fingers on the skin of JC's throat, to make it gleam as well. It was nice that Boy didn't know how to do everything.

Next were his eyebrows. JC showed Boy how to mix the pigments, how to take the brush and wet it, pull it into a sharp point and then dip the brush into the paint, then carefully line the skin under JC's eyes and along the edges of his brows. Boy's eyes were wide with wonder when he was done.

"You look just like a painting!" he said, and the smile he gave JC was a boy's grin. For a moment he looked like the child he was.

"Go get some water," JC said. "We'll take it off and then you can try."

He looked out the window when Boy left. The mountain towered all around him, capped white and gray. The ground was black and rocky. JC missed his father's house, the comforting view of sky and ocean, the warm brown color of sand. He didn't miss the city. He took a few deep breaths. His lungs still burned a little.

There was a man walking across the rocks, two horses trailing behind him. He was holding a bridle in each of his hands, whistling softly under his breath. JC stared at the horses. They didn't look at all like he thought they would. Their faces were long and pointed, and their coats were dull-colored, spotted. He leaned out of the window to get a better look.

"You look like a bird," the man holding the horses said. JC stared at him. He was short and had the splayed legged gait of a fisherman. JC thought of his father's home, of himself as a boy mending fishing nets while sitting on a boat riding across the gentle swell and dip of the waves, and smiled.

"I've never seen a horse before," he said.

The man laughed. "You weren't missing much. They're stubborn. Eat a lot."

"Where are you taking them?" The man wasn't wearing the dark tunic and pants that the Steward and Boy wore, was instead dressed in the flax-colored clothes of a priest. "Are they a donation to a temple?"

The man smiled. He had the grin of a prankster, wide and mirthful. His hair stuck up crazily, shorn in short dark spikes all over his head. JC had only seen solemn monks with shaved heads and begging bowls before. He wondered if different gods were worshipped on the mountain. His father had said the people that lived up high were different.

"Yes," the man said. "A donation. I haven't seen you before. New to the house?"

JC nodded. Finally someone who seemed to know less than he did. It was nice. "I'm JC. I mean, the Beloved."

The man stopped and looked up at him again, squinting. "Oh," he said, and his smile grew broader. "When you see the Lady, tell her Chris sends her greetings and compliments her on her fine taste."

JC knew how to answer that. He dipped his head, just enough to tease, show the part of his hair and a hint of the bare line of his neck, and closed the window. He heard Chris chuckle outside, then the clatter of the horses' feet as they climbed over the rocks.

JC looked out the window again a few moments later. The horses were at the edge of a path that led off into the short scrubby pines that passed for trees in the mountains, and Chris had turned back, was looking at the window. He bowed low, a formal gesture of recognition. His hair was glossy in the sunlight, like a raven's wing. JC shut the window quickly and heard the faint lilt of a laugh reach his ears.

"I met the priest," JC said when Boy came back a few minutes later, a bowl of water nestled in his arms.

"Who?" Boy said, and tilted his head to one side, looking puzzled.

"The priest. Chris. He was taking some horses to the temple and said I should wish the Lady--"

Boy dropped the bowl and darted out of the room. JC stared at the dark puddle on the floor, the shards of pottery. Maybe he had seen a ghost or a spirit. After all, the mountains were closer to the gods.

Boy returned, carrying a cloth to wipe up the water and another bowl to place the broken one in. The Steward was with him and his face looked like a storm.

"Which way did he go?" he said, and JC stared at him.

"The priest?"

"A priest," the Steward said, and laughed harshly. He walked over to the window and closed the shutters. "He's a bandit. What did he say to you?" JC told him and the Steward swore, a long string of inventive oaths.

"I didn't know--" JC said, but the Steward was already gone.

"I'll get your shoes," Boy said quietly. "The Lady will be here soon."

JC looked at the closed window and nodded.

 

 

 

The Lady arrived later that day, long after Boy had laced JC's shoes and left him with a smile. JC had actually fallen asleep and woke up to the sounds of a polite fake cough, saw a servant's face hovering near his but carefully turned away.

"The Lady wishes to see you," the servant said and JC followed him obediently down one hallway and then another, finally stopping in a large well-lit room that was empty except for a few mats on the floor. JC knelt and waited, wished he'd had time to make sure he was ready.

Eventually another servant slid open a paper screen, revealing another, even larger room, and knelt towards one corner of it. The servant's bow was very low, the sleeves of his robes brushing against the floor and pooling into puddles of fabric. That meant the mistress of the house was coming. JC bowed his head to the floor and waited.

He heard the light footsteps of someone entering the room and the sound of the screen closing. JC shifted his toes inside his shoes and waited, perfectly still with his head resting on the floor.

"Welcome," a woman's voice said and JC lifted his head up, saw the Lady.

She was beautiful. JC had not expected that. He had been taught ways to describe pitted skin as lovely, sweet words that could be whispered when describing the sheen of dull hair, how to praise eyes that were dull or crossed. He was never given words to use on loveliness.

He pressed his forehead against the cool wooden floor again and thought lovely, so lovely. He'd seen golden skin and hair, wide clear eyes and the slender lines of a body that would make the most beautiful boys JC had trained with look ungainly. And she had chosen him.

"I am pleased to meet you," she said formally, and even her voice was beautiful, low and lilting, made for song. He lifted his head up and looked at her again. Even the books he had read, thin rice pages stitched together and covered with the long curving characters of instruction, had never described a woman like this. She smiled at him and JC felt his own face curve in answer.

They drank wine in the long narrow room reserved for formal banquets, JC pouring carefully into the two cups that had been set out, serving her first. She sat down easily by the low table, crossing her legs, and gestured for him to sit beside her. She had two tiny tattoos on the inside of her wrists, a spiraling blue and red pattern. JC kept his legs folded under him and his back straight; hoped that enough, but not too much, of the skin of his throat showed. He knew he should compliment her home, her appearance, the land that she owned, but the words would not come. He could only sit, silent, and look at her covertly, memorizing the play of the sun in her bright hair.

After she finished her wine she asked him to sing for her. JC was relieved by this. He could always sing. It was the first skill he'd mastered when he'd begun his training and had enchanted the broker who'd purchased him.

He sang a ballad and she listened politely, her face impassive. Afterwards she asked him to write a poem and he did, rolling back the sleeves of his robes so ink wouldn't spot them and so the lines of his arms would show. It was an invitation and he could tell from her smile that she knew it. He wrote a seventeen-line ode to orchids, a poem he'd been taught that signaled devotion, and handed it to her with the paper lying flat in his hand, bent forward so his tunic parted to expose more of the line of his throat. She took it carefully, her fingers locking with his for a moment. JC felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew what he had been selected for, had wanted it. He had wanted it for the prestige it would bring, for the look in his father's eyes, for the streets of the city he'd leave behind. He had not expected this, serving someone so bright, so golden.

"Sing me another song," she said softly, and he did. She watched him more intently this time, a small smile on her face.

"You are lovely," she said when he was done. "And now it seems you are mine."

JC had been told that she might say that, that purchasing a companion led women to expect expressions of devotion. He had memorized the standard answer. He had not expected to answer with such joy.

"I am yours," he said and dared to look at her eyes.

She looked amused, which startled him. "My own Beloved," she said, and laughed. "My Steward said he would make sure I received someone perfect." There was something in her face JC didn't understand, that somehow looked past him, and he felt a blush creep across his face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "This is all very new to me. I had not expected--you are very beautiful, and mine, and--" she paused, "you will bring honor to my home. I am sure of this."

It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. Honor was something that only women were normally associated with, a value that was held to be something that only their complex minds could understand.

"Thank you," he said, and touched his forehead to the floor briefly. She smiled again, opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

"You can return to your rooms," she finally said, and he realized the color of her lips reminded him of a peach, pale and glowing. He wondered what she would taste like.

He refilled her glass and left, went to his rooms to wait for her. He dismissed Boy, who grinned at him before he slid the screen shut, a quick hesitant smile. JC unfolded the bed and lit incense in one corner of the room, opened the shutters enough to let a line of moonlight cross the room and hit the bed. He wondered what she would want him to do and thought of all the things he had learned, his whole life leading to this moment. He put on the thinnest robe he owned, the one made of silk so fine he could see his hand through it even in the dim light. He wondered how her hands would feel on his skin.

He waited, but she never came.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Quiet. That's what his life became. JC woke when he wanted, had Boy help him dress, then stayed in his rooms. At night he would go and attend the Lady, sit by her side, pour her wine and sing when she asked. She never came to his rooms and only ever called for him when she had guests, nights when the large long room that opened up onto a verandah would be set up, a low table placed in the middle with seating mats scattered around it.

When he was needed a servant was sent to get Boy, who would then come and get JC. He would describe the visitors and help JC if he decided to change his robes. One night Boy described all the guests as wearing the pale purple robes of the Empress's first level of courtiers, and JC hesitated over what to wear before finally settling on a yellow robe overlaid with a pale green one that picked up the yellow's sheen. Boy brought him a pair of slippers, green with yellow dragonflies embroidered on them, and ribbons painted with scenes of lovers embracing, but JC shook his head. He went barefoot instead, tied his robes in the most formal manner he knew and walked carefully so as not to let his feet show at all.

The Lady was seated at the head of the table, the ceremonial cup of welcome in front of her. JC went and sat behind her, kneeling back on his heels, careful to make sure his robes covered his feet. The guests all sat cross-legged on their seating mats, the backs of their robes identical, adorned with the Empress's crest. Several of the women were holding maps and scrolls and the talk was quiet, intense, different from the parties the Lady usually held where there was much laughter and smiling and JC's appearance was always commented on.

JC sat quietly, wondered why the Lady had summoned him. He couldn't follow all the conversations, but he heard enough to know there was discussion of taxes and trade routes and bandits and edicts. He kept his head bowed until a servant nudged him with one shoulder and handed him a six-string harp. JC blinked and watched the room come into focus. His neck was sore. He thought, from the length of the shadows dancing across the wall, that he'd probably fallen asleep.

The women were all watching him; some intently, some with eyes straying to the documents they held or to their wine cups. The Lady was looking at him too, a small smile on her face.

"Shall he play for us?" she asked.

The women agreed, called out suggestions of songs he could play, their voices cheerful and tipsy. The mood of the room had shifted from when he'd first arrived, and JC knew a call for diversion, for entertainment, when he heard one. He strummed the opening chords of the floating world song, an old song that was played at every brothel in the pleasure quarter when they opened the gates at night.

It was a good choice. The women applauded and sang along, cheered appreciatively when JC turned around to show the dip in his robes across his back, revealing the nape of his neck and the beginning of the line of his spine. He poured wine for the guests when he was finished, paid them all polite compliments and smiled at their teasing and innuendos. When he served the Lady he let the tip of his feet peek out from his robes, saw the admiring glances the guests seated next to her sent his way and then hers. To have bare feet was a sign of intimacy, an invitation. The Lady smiled at him and gestured for him to sit beside her, kept him there until the party ended.

She turned to him after the last guest left, her face flushed and radiant. "That was wonderful," she said, and her words were a little slurred. Her breath was warm and wine-scented, and her nipples were peaked, pushing against the pale purple folds of her robes. JC knew all the signs of a woman wanting companionship and he waited for her to touch him, felt his own eyes start to drift down, heavy-lidded. He hadn't eaten, but he'd had wine, taken sips from the guests' glasses when they offered and almost all of them had, smiled at him and let their fingers trail across his, watched him as he moved. He thought of all the ways he could please her, thank her for what she'd given him.

"Beloved," she said softly, wonder in her voice, and ran a thumb over his lower lip. He opened his mouth enough to let the tip slide in.

She drew in a breath, a sharp hiss of sound, and then took a step back. "Send the steward to see me," she said, her voice brisk and efficient, and left, crossing the room in a flurry of robes. JC stood where he was for a moment, then went and told one of the servants clearing the banquet room what the Lady wished. The servant nodded, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He pressed a bowl of rice into JC's hands as he left the room.

The bowl was mostly full and JC ate the rice quickly, looking out at the moon hanging low in the sky. Boy was waiting for him when he got back to his rooms, his face tired. He unlaced and unknotted JC's robes, combed his hair, handed him a towel after JC rinsed his face. JC thought of the Lady's voice, her eyes, the yielding lean of her body towards his. He didn't understand why she had purchased him and it frightened him. If she didn't want him, if he was sent back to the city--he couldn't even complete that thought.

Boy cleared his throat and took JC's empty bowl out of his hand, bowed his head and unfolded the sleeping mats, then slid the screen closed and left. He hadn't looked at JC once. He knew more than JC did, understood the ways of the household.

JC wished someone would explain those ways to him.


	3. Chapter 3

Boy was the one who told him about the ceremony. He burst into JC's rooms one morning, spilling a little of the tea he was carrying. JC knew he was supposed to scold -- servants weren't supposed to spill anything -- but seeing Boy's wide grin made him realize that smiles were something he hadn't seen recently. The Lady's servants were quietly attentive, but all of JC's attempts at conversation, which admittedly had been few, were been met with silence and polite bows.

"Something's happening," JC said and Boy nodded, passed the cup to JC. The tea was cold. Normally it was scalding hot, so hot JC had to let it sit while he got dressed.

"You have to be ready by the hour of the Boar," Boy said and grinned again. The gap in his teeth whistled as he breathed, like he'd just been running. Whatever the news was, Boy had just found out and had rushed to tell him. JC smiled. It was nice someone wanted to talk to him.

"What time is it now?" Incense sticks were marked with twelve notches-- one for each hour of the day-- and were the only way to accurately gauge time. JC was supposed to burn them in his rooms constantly to keep them sweet smelling for guests. He'd stopped doing that his second week in the house. It wasn't necessary.

Boy scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders. JC hoped he didn't have fleas. He probably should make sure Boy bathed once a week.

"Halfway through Rat?" Boy said.

JC sighed and got up, motioned for Boy to roll up his sleeping mats. "What am I rushing to get ready for?"

Boy tied the mats into a roll and then put them in a compartment that was built into the floor, pushed the bedframe together and put it in the compartment as well. "Dedication ceremony," he said and went out into the hallway, dragged the cedar tub in. "The temple in the village has been renovated and the Lady is attending the celebration."

"Oh," JC said, although he had no idea why he would need to go to such a ceremony. Normally concubines stayed in their owner's homes. His father had suffered much embarrassment because he'd had to venture into the village to make household purchases himself.

He bathed and got dressed, guessing how formally he was supposed to dress by the way Boy nodded when JC suggested certain robes. He ended up in the most formal outfit he owned, the one he'd purchased for his journey to the Lady's home. Three robes, the first a plain red one with a wide collar, the second a pale blue embroidered with orchids, and the third a deep purple that held hints of red and blue, so dark it was almost black, with a white undercollar and a riverbank scene embroidered on the back. The sashes JC wore were all the same red as his first robe, tipped with blue so that when they were knotted the river embroidered down the back of his outer robe would look almost real.

It took a long time to get everything tied properly and Boy was reduced to tears of frustration at one point, his eyes welling when JC made him refold the collar so that a hint of red dipped out from under the white undercollar of his top robe. JC sent him for more tea and fixed his hair himself, uncapping the tiny bottle of camilla oil his father had pressed into his hands before he left and inhaling as the scent filled the room.

He let Boy paint his eyebrows when he returned, bit his tongue so he wouldn't smile at the sight of Boy biting his lower lip with his tongue poking out a bit, his face screwed up in overexaggerated lines of concentration. After that he walked in slow circles around the room, waiting. He couldn't sit down because if he did he'd have to readjust the folds of his robes.

A servant came to get him eventually, standing in the doorway and bowing low. Boy went to the door and murmured something, turned back to JC and said, "The Lady is waiting for you outside."

JC was nervous and a bit irritated, tired of standing and of wondering why he had to dress up to attend a religious ceremony that he shouldn't even be attending, and almost said, "Yes, I heard," but didn't and was glad when he saw Boy shuffling his feet back and forth, nervous about how well he'd done helping JC get ready for a very important occasion.

"Thank you," JC said quietly and Boy grinned up at him.

Outside the Lady was seated on a horse, pulling at its reins nervously. The Steward was next to her, his face impassive. He was dressed in formal attire as well, wearing the baggy trousers and tunic of a guardsman, the Lady's crest embroidered on the back of his shirt.

JC looked at the Lady, surprised to see her on a horse. He'd thought he would ride with her in a carriage. His mother, the few times she'd gone with his father into town, had always traveled by carriage, gesturing impatiently for his father to join her. When he was in training, the few women he'd seen take men back to their homes for the evening had traveled by carriage as well.

"You look lovely," the Lady said quietly.

JC was continually astonished by how beautiful she was. She never dressed her hair; didn't wear the white thick powder that most women wore on her face. She didn't even pluck her eyebrows. And still she was gorgeous, the sun gilding her skin and hair gold. For the first time, he wondered why a woman as lovely as she was needed to purchase a companion. He couldn't think of a reason why.

"The carriage is coming," the Steward said. He was frowning a little, squinting as he looked at JC. JC nodded at him and got in the carriage when it arrived, helped inside by two unsmiling and silent houseboys. They started off towards the village, the Lady and the Steward riding in front, JC following behind them, the clatter of her guard filling the air with sound. He drew the curtains closed, as he was supposed to, but wished he could leave them open. There were so many things he never got to see.

 

 

 

The dedication ceremony was boring. JC hadn't been to a temple in years but they were just as he remembered, thick clouds of incense choking the air as chanting monks and priests asked for blessing and donations. By the time the ceremony ended, JC was sure everyone crowded into the temple smelled like jasmine and smoke. He felt light-headed from standing for so long and his head ached a bit.

The ceremony itself had been endless; a series of prayers offered for the items the Lady had donated, punctuated by polite murmurs from the crowd when the items were particularly grand. JC looked at the array of gold cups and silver plates and marveled at the Lady's wealth. His father had been told she was prosperous and clearly the broker hadn't lied.

Every villager attended the ceremony. JC saw a sea of faces watching him as he descended from the carriage, the Lady holding out one hand to help him. She'd walked inside the temple with him, one hand resting gently against the small of his back. The Steward had walked in behind them, followed by her guard. The villagers were let in last and they all stood quietly as the Lady greeted them, their faces almost, but not quite, sullen. JC was used to the hum and chatter of conversations when he passed through villages, to the noise and bustle of city crowds --even when the Empress was speaking -- and the villagers' silence was a surprise. He wasn't sure what it meant.

When the ceremony ended the Lady made a brief speech to the crowd then distributed plums and the small silver coins that symbolized peace. They were more money than most peasants saw in a year. JC knew that. But the villagers just accepted them quietly, without any of the pandemonium he expected and with no respect or joy on their faces. The people hadn't really been moved by her efforts and their interest in him seemed to be almost non-existent. They were far more fascinated by the Steward. JC had seen many gazes cast the Steward's way during the ceremony and the bows that people gave him were much lower than traditional. Their bows to JC had been polite but cursory.

The Lady helped him back into the carriage as they all left and the smile she gave him was broad and sunny. Her touch lingered on his legs for a moment and JC smiled back at her hesitantly. She grinned and rode away.

The carriage lurched suddenly and JC fell to one side, his shoulder slamming against the floor. He grabbed the hangings with one hand, trying to keep himself from falling out, and saw a group of riders race by; a blur of horses and riders, browns and grays and blacks topped with the colorful folds of soldiers' and peasants' clothes. There were flashes of gold, the glint of silver, and JC thought he saw a cup that the Lady had just dedicated to the temple clutched in someone's hand. The last rider by swung up suddenly, turning towards the Lady, and JC recognized him. It was the bandit who'd posed as a priest, Chris.

"A tribute for your kindness to all, Lady," he shouted, and swung a sword out in a great shining arc. A guard, who'd stopped to talk to a village girl and fallen behind the rest of the riders slumped forward, his head landing on the ground with an audible thump. JC had never seen anyone but a woman use a sword before. He'd never seen anyone die by a sword before. It was so sudden it didn't seem real.

The Lady turned and her face was shocked, sorrowful. Then her mouth twisted up, a grimace of pain and anger, and JC saw her draw her own sword and move forward. Her guard scattered, some moving towards her, to make sure she was safe, and others chasing after the bandits. The carriage rocked back and forth, buffeted by passing horses. JC had seen pictures of battles before, neatly carved lines illustrating troop movements. What he was seeing now wasn't anything like that. It was chaos; people everywhere, a blur of bodies and blood and the silver of weapons.

Chris raced back, riding easily through the townspeople who parted out of his way. He stopped beside JC's carriage, parted the silk hangings more, brushing JC's hand aside. JC froze where he was, his legs curled up and under him. His shoulder ached where he'd fallen.

"You've even got a gilded cage," Chris said thoughtfully, and touched the edge of JC's robes, the swirl of embroidery at the hem, pulling out a fold JC had carefully created.

JC could only continue to stare, his voice trapped in his throat, fluttering like a bird's wings. Chris's gaze was frank and assessing, hot with desire.

"Beautiful," Chris said softly, and JC had heard that constantly; his mother's voice saying that they day she ordered his father to train him, the night he'd first entered into a room for a woman's touch. It had never made him feel like this, breathless and terrified in a strange melting way. There were fine lines around Chris's eyes and spots of mud and blood on his face. He still held a sword in one hand. He wasn't handsome, not like other men JC had known and touched, fleeting embraces while he was in training. Those men were all as beautiful as he was. Chris wasn't beautiful at all. JC reached out to touch him anyway, fascinated by something in his face, his eyes.

A scream echoed in the air, loud and pleading, someone dying, and JC froze, his hand near Chris's face. Chris stared at him for a moment before smiling, his face transforming into an expression of impish joy, of promise, and then vanished, wheeling his horse around and riding off.

"Are you hurt?" The Steward poked his head inside the carriage, his voice rough with worry. There was blood on his face too, trickling into his beard. JC drew back and nodded. The Steward didn't notice. He'd turned around and was looking out into the cloud of dust that obscured the skirmish. JC could hear the sounds of swords, of metal hitting flesh. He heard the Lady's voice, clear and strong.

"I'm fine," he said. The Steward glanced back at him briefly and then said, "Take him back to the house," to the driver. The carriage took off at an alarming rate, bumping over the road. JC pulled the hangings closed, then opened them a bit. Back behind him, the Steward and the Lady were fighting side by side and the townspeople were gathering up what had been dropped by the bandits and checking every fallen body for valuables. Chris was gone.

Two days later JC found out why the Lady had purchased him.


	4. Chapter 4

JC woke when the sun was just starting to rise. Usually he slept much later but he was hungry. He hadn't eaten anything since the morning before. He'd attended the Lady last night, entertained her guests--another set of visitors, this time passing through on their way to the capital. They'd been quiet for the most part, drinking and asking the Lady pointed questions about her household. JC had never seen her flustered before but her responses to the questions asked were long silences and overly cheerful laughter sprinkled with endless formal compliments. She'd finally told the guests that JC had been trained in the capital and seemed relieved when they wanted to ask him about the pleasure quarter. He'd answered questions about which places to visit, kept his voice steady. Just because his time there hadn't been enjoyable didn't matter. It had gotten him where he was, had given him knowledge that he used, that was appreciated by others.

He'd meant to wake Boy up and send him to the kitchen but seeing him lying on the floor outside JC's room, curled up in a ball with dark circles under his eyes made him reconsider. He'd spent most of his life keeping night hours, waking up late and not retiring until the moon itself was floating down towards the horizon. It had been hard for him at first too.

He didn't know the layout of the house well. It was large and imposing and the Lady had never invited JC to leave his quarters to visit hers or even told him he was free to wander at will. That wasn't unusual though. JC had only ever seen parts of the capital, brief glimpses while riding from his training house to his lessons and then to the brothel where he put what he'd learned to practice. If he'd ever tried to leave--and he'd thought about it when he first arrived--he wouldn't have had any idea where to go. The city was sprawling and chaotic, laid out with streets that doubled back on each other and ended suddenly. It was designed to hold people in, not let them go.

He thought the kitchens were back behind the room the Lady used when she entertained--he'd seen servants slide in and out, opening a screen on the far side. What he found instead of the kitchens was a hallway, and then another one, all with rooms that were exquisitely decorated and mostly empty. He stood for a couple of minutes in one, admiring a mural that had been painted on the far wall. Then his stomach rumbled and he remembered what he was looking for.

The screen closing the next room he passed was open a bit, like someone had slid inside and forgotten to close it. There were noises--the sounds of sex, the low murmurs and quick gasping breaths. JC wouldn't have even stopped to look--he'd heard noises like that for most of his life--except that he could see the Lady's hair, unbound and streaming across the floor. She had a lover. JC held his breath and crept closer, wondering who it was. Perhaps it was the Lady's dresser, a woman who was absolutely beautiful in a tiny doll-like way and who had, according to Boy, been with the Lady since before she was a great warrior.

It wasn't the dresser. It was the Steward. JC stared at what he could see through the gap between the screen and the wall. The Lady was underneath the Steward--JC had heard that sometimes women liked to be pleasured that way but he'd never had anyone request it and thought it was something pornographers made up to sell their woodcuts--and they were kissing. JC pressed a hand to his mouth. Kissing was--it wasn't done. Perhaps the lowest of all prostitutes would consent to it, but it wasn't something that was even pictured in woodcuts.

"Britney," the Steward said, and rested his forehead against hers. The Lady should never have noticed someone like him. His body wasn't at all elegant. He was broad-shouldered and his neck and back weren't slender at all. His hair was cut short, like any soldier's, and he was moving awkwardly, urgently. The Lady didn't seem to mind at all; not that the Steward called her by her name, not the shape of his body or the way he moved. In fact, with her eyes closed and her head thrown back, she looked very much what JC had always assumed he'd make her look like one day.

"I love you," the Lady said in her low lovely voice and then JC understood.

The Lady was supposed to have a Beloved. Every noblewoman of rank did. She was allowed to visit all the prostitutes she wanted. Eventually, if she served the Empress well, she'd be given a man to marry, someone from a noble family, a well-educated virgin who had been groomed to raise children and take care of the household. She was not supposed to take a lover who wasn't made to be one and she certainly wasn't supposed to fall in love with him.

"She's very chaste," the broker had told JC and his father. "Doesn't even visit the brothels when she's in the capital. So her taking a Beloved--it's a great honor. She was enchanted with the woodcut I showed her, said that you would be perfect, that you were very beautiful."

Perfect. A concubine from the country who hadn't been in the capital past the time allotted for training, who hadn't been there long enough to hear all the gossip that floated down from the Empress's world. JC thought of all the questions last night's guests had asked. How the Lady only called him when visitors were present and was careful to show that he was in her favor then.

She and the Steward were murmuring quietly to each other now, hands resting on each other's bodies with easy familiarity. He'd never thought of her as having some sort of interior life or feelings past complicated ones like honor and duty and all the political intrigues she had to deal with. He hadn't really thought of her as real. She was in love with a member of her household. It was utterly shocking.

JC went back to his rooms. He got lost along the way and Boy was standing in the doorway when he got back, a quizzical look on his face.

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere."

"You should have woken me up," Boy said, and yawned.

"Go back to sleep."

"I could go get the tub," Boy said. "The Lady might want to see you later this morning and--"

"We'll have plenty of time to get ready later," JC said. "Go back to sleep."

Boy shrugged and lay back down on his pallet. JC went back into his rooms and took off the robe he was wearing. It was made of the finest silk, the same one he'd put on every night since he'd first arrived in the house. He realized he wasn't going to need it.

 


	5. Chapter 5

JC had heard how lovely mountains were his entire life, had seen pictures of them, heard people tell stories about them. He thought they weren't as pretty as everyone said they were. In fact, there wasn't much to look at except for rocks and they were everywhere, sharp black stones covering everything. JC had to walk carefully so they wouldn't cut through his shoes. He wasn't used to worrying about his clothes wearing out but the Lady hadn't mentioned anything about purchasing more for him. JC suspected it probably hadn't occurred to her. He would have to try to find a way to mention it to her dresser politely in a few months.

The mountain wasn't pretty, but it did offer one thing JC hadn't ever had before. Space. He was surprised by how much there was of it. He was used to the city, to the crowded streets outside the brothels and the even more crowded space inside. He'd shared his room with two others and when they all had visitors someone would inevitably end up crashing through one of the paper walls. Here, inside and outside, he rarely saw anyone except the occasional servants and they still didn't speak to him. JC finally knew why they didn't. There wasn't any point. They knew the purpose he served, what he was there to hide.

The Lady's lands reached to the edge of the forest. The forest itself was as disappointing as the mountain was. JC had seen pictures of forests as well, stared at drawings of thick corpses of trees and tall grasses. Here the trees were short and sparse and there wasn't any grass, just more black rocks. JC looked at the path that led down into the trees and then at the one that led to the village. He leaned against what was left of a rickety fence and thought about going to the village, dressing up and taking Boy as his attendant, the two of them riding in a carriage through town. It might be nice to know that everyone was watching him, knew who he was. In the city he hadn't been free, but thanks to the woodcut makers, everyone had known his face. Every courtesan in the city had a woodcut made in his image and all the images were pressed into guidebooks that visitors could buy.

"You know, I could see you from the road," a voice said and JC turned.

Chris was leaning against the fence across from him, tapping his fingers against the railing.

"She keeps you very well dressed," he said. "I've never seen anything like--" He pointed at JC's robes. The top one was dark green and embroidered with a forest and mountain scene worked in lighter green and white.

"You've never seen a robe like this?" JC asked, careful to keep his voice light. "You've never been to the brightest corner of the Empress's city, then?" He started backing away from the fence slowly. The Lady hadn't told him anything after she'd come back from the village the day of the dedication ceremony but it didn't matter. The last time JC had seen him, Chris had cut off someone's head. And JC had wanted to touch him. He knew when something was dangerous. He'd never wanted to touch anyone who hadn't paid for him before.

"I've been," Chris said, and started walking towards him. "I just never paid for anyone like you." He was dressed in the strangest outfit JC had ever seen; a soldier's tunic, the edges frayed with age, and peasant's trousers, plain and long. Around his neck was a monk's pendant, the kind with a small orange feather whisk attached at one end, and he was carrying a sword. Normally everyone dressed according to their rank, wearing the garments specifically prescribed for their class, their role. Chris didn't seem to fit in anywhere.

JC took another step back, then one more. Chris reached out and caught his arm. His face was serious, unsmiling. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, and touched JC's neck with his fingers lightly, a caress, and then pressed in tighter. JC's world went red around the edges, then turned totally black.

 

 

 

When he woke he thought of the ocean. He was swaying back and forth, his body rocking like it was buffeted by waves. For a moment a sudden fierce joy swept through him and then he realized he was lying across the back of a horse. He remembered what he was. He remembered Chris. He pushed himself up and fell, hit the ground hard. The horse stopped. JC stood up. His legs felt shaky and the unmoving firmness of the ground under him was a surprise.

"I know you're frightened," Chris said, climbing down and walking towards him. "I'm sure nothing like this has happened to you before," he continued, smiling a little. His words were polite but too much so, almost stilted, and his voice was light but not very kind. JC looked at him and saw many things; contempt for what he was, curiosity, desire. It was wearying. He'd seen the exact play of emotions countless times before, on a countless number of faces.

"You don't know anything about me," he said.

Chris smiled and this time it was genuine. "I know what you are," he said, "I know the value you hold for someone. Is there more I should know?"

The Lady. The kidnapping of house concubines wasn't uncommon--JC had seen many plays about that very subject in the city, seated next to customers who laughed and shot him hot knowing glances--but he'd never pictured it happening to him. He knew what his worth was to the Lady and it certainly wasn't much. He'd forgotten that everyone didn't know that she had no attachment to him past the role he served. He had to get back before anyone could notice he was gone, before word of what had happened could reach her. He didn't want to be cast aside, didn't want to be sent back to the city, and being stupid enough to get himself taken certainly wasn't going to help show how valuable he could be to her. He took a breath and looked at Chris.

Chris was watching him, his face impassive, but his eyes were anything but. JC knew desire when he saw it, and it was written on Chris's face.

"I could teach you things," he said. "Pleasures. I could--"

Chris rubbed his chin with one hand, looking thoughtful. JC held his breath. He was good at what he did; he knew how to make people feel special, he was able to sense what they wanted and then be whatever it was -- tender lover, seductive rake, a man who would try anything. He began to unknot the sash that held his robes closed, and smiled at Chris, lifted his hands out to touch him.

Chris pushed his hands away and knelt before him. His eyes were on a level with JC's waist, and he pushed JC's hands aside and undid the sash that held JC's robes closed himself.

"Wait," JC said. This was not how things were supposed to go.

Chris ignored him and slid a hand inside the folds of JC's robes, touched him.

"I'll--" JC said and started to kneel himself. Chris's hand tightened and JC stood still, frozen. Chris kept moving his hand, pushing the folds of JC's robes aside so he could watch what he was doing.

"I can--" JC said frantically. "Just tell me what you want and--"

Chris looked up at him, his eyes dark.

"This is what I want," he said, and bent his head.

No one had ever--there had been customers in the city who would arrive in pairs and ask for two men, drink and watch while the men touched each other, practiced the art of kissing a woman's folds on each other. But they had only wanted that as a prelude to their own pleasure and certainly not until the men found their own. It was more a way for women to see what their bodies looked like and how they responded. There was never this--JC didn't even have words for it, for the sight of Chris's face, his eyes partly closed, the furious slanting line of his jaw, the way his face shifted as his mouth worked. The biting grasp of his hands on JC's hips, the way he held on when JC, shocked that Chris did more than kiss the tip of his erection, jerked back.

JC knew pleasure. He'd studied it, given it, received it. He was used to languid touches, to building desire, to creating what was wanted. He was not used to being surprised. His own orgasm stunned him and he fell back, gasping, landing on the ground with Chris still attached to him, fingers digging into his hips.

Chris didn't move his mouth away, kept it there, sucking gently even when JC felt himself begin to shrink, his flesh so sensitive that what Chris was doing made his skin prickle. He was totally aware again, not lost in the shock and surprise of the moment and he was horribly embarrassed. Sex was not--it wasn't some animal display. It was art and there were forms to follow. Chris pulled away and looked up at him.

"I don't need you to teach me about pleasure," he said brusquely. Then he stood up and walked back over to the horse. He looked perfectly normal except for the bunched fabric clustered around the opening of his trousers. He didn't seem to notice that though, just stood there quietly, watching. JC didn't understand it at all. What sort of person did what Chris had done and then walked away unsatisfied?

An insult, JC realized. That's what Chris had done; show his lack of respect for what JC was, the place he held, the things he'd been taught.

JC stood up slowly. The rest of the knots on his other sashes had started to loosen and his robes were hopelessly wrinkled. He could feel bits of rock digging into his feet. He felt angry and hopelessly weary.

"I just ... the Lady won't be interested in reclaiming me and I was willing to bargain," he said and his voice was thick. He felt boneless and scared, the same way he'd felt when he stood on a ship for the first time, the way he'd felt when he'd sat in a room in the brothel and waited for his first visitor.

"She'll come for you," Chris said. "She doesn't give up possessions lightly."

JC turned his face away and looked at the outline of the mountain. He was shaking--he could feel it. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He looked over at Chris, at the tight curve of his mouth, and then turned away again.

"You should ride for a bit," Chris said shortly. "Your feet are bleeding." JC looked down at them and saw long red scratches on his skin, places where the rocks had ripped the fabric of his shoes. He looked back behind him. He could see the Lady's house, far off in the distance, almost hidden in the curves of the mountain.

"They don't hurt," he said.

He walked towards Chris and let him help him into the wooden saddle. Chris showed him how to hold onto the reins, tucked JC's robes up and around the saddle as well, smoothing the fabric down.

"Don't let go," Chris said, and took the horse's bridle in one hand. They walked deeper into the forest.

Chris was whistling a little as he walked, a tuneless sound, his face grim. JC looked at his shoes, the beautiful colors of them, wrapped around his bleeding feet. He knew what he was, sitting there. An ornament, a thing, something to be bargained for. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Once JC had wanted to be a fisherman. Back when he was young, younger than even Boy, he'd been apprenticed to a fisherman and his family. JC had lived with them, rose early in the morning when the sky was still black banded with red and gold at the bottom and walked down to the docks, rode out to sea. He loved it.

There was something about the sea--the smell of it, the endless expanse of it--that made him feel very small and very important all at once. He was good at fishing because he was patient and quiet. He loved the salty scent of the ocean, the way the fishes' scales gleamed as the nets were hauled into the boat, the sharp slapping sounds their bodies made. He loved the cold wet feel of the nets, the creaking sounds of the wood boat. He liked listening to the ocean's song.

All that changed on his seventh birthday. That was the day he met his mother. His father had summoned him home the day before and JC had gone, was shocked when his father complained that he smelled like fish and made him bathe. They'd eaten a quiet supper, JC devouring the fish he'd brought and his father picking at it, stripping the flesh from the bones and separating it into neat piles. Later, JC realized that his father didn't--and couldn't--eat when he was nervous. At the time though, he'd only thought that his father was upset with him. He'd gone to bed feeling sick and confused, wondering why he'd been summoned home.

His father woke him while the moon was still high in the sky and made him get dressed, bid him to sit on a mat inside the hallway, poised by the front door. His father's smile was frightened and joyful.

"He looks like you," was the first thing his mother said to him. She was looking at him, but she wasn't talking to him at all.

"Beautiful," she said, and he thought that comment might be just for his ears alone. He touched his head to the floor, felt her fingers rest on the back of his neck. After a moment, she told him to rise.

He wished he looked like her. She was solid, short and heavy. She looked important and had stubby imperious fingers. She crooked one of them at his father, beckoning him towards her. Her chin was wide and pointed.

JC looked at his father. He was tall and thin, long lines of bones under stretched skin. He looked like he might float away.

"You will train him," his mother said, and his father bowed, his head resting inches from the hems of JC's mother's robes.

"Of course," his father replied. His mother touched the back of his father's neck then, just like she had his. His father rose and walked back to his bedroom, his steps light and even. His mother followed, and the floor quaked with her movements. She did not turn back to look at JC.

That day changed everything, but JC didn't know it. Instead he sat quietly listening to the strange noises coming from his father's room. His father appeared later and briefly, told JC to eat and then go to bed. He pressed a rolled piece of silk into JC's hands before he went back to the bedroom. JC unrolled it, found a pendant nestled inside. It was plain, a carved lion's head, but JC liked it. It was the first gift he'd ever been given. He slid it around his neck and fell asleep.

His mother left the next morning. JC saw the long line of her braid trailing down over her back as she was helped into her carriage. She nodded at his father and glanced once more at him, her eyes skimming across him, registering and then forgetting him all at once. And then she left, her carriage swaying slowly down the road, kicking up little clouds of dust.

"She gave me a pendant," JC told his father.

His father smiled at him and then touched his cheek briefly.

"She wouldn't forget you," he said, and it was then JC realized who the gift was from. His father would always remember him.

He wasn't allowed to fish after that. It was not to be his trade. He was kept indoors so his tan would fade, so his skin would take on a milky glow. He learned how to be wanted, how to create desire. He learned he was training to become something remarkable, someone special. He missed the sounds of the ocean, the soft slap of a fishing boat riding over the waves. He learned how to play music instead, how to sing. He missed knotting nets and the feel of fish sliding through his hands. He learned how to tie sashes instead, how to create knots of pleasure, how to shape other's skin with his hands, his body.

In the city he learned who his mother was, saw a carving of her on a list of civil servants. She was a tax collector for the third district, a bureaucrat. He'd passed her once in the city, walking from his brothel to a teahouse. She hadn't recognized him.

JC looked down at himself, wrapped in bright flowing colors. So lovely, so obvious. He hated them.

"Get off the horse," Chris said, sharply, tugging on the horse's reins and interrupting JC's thoughts.

JC blinked and looked around him. He'd seen bandits' camps in pictures before. It occurred to him as he got off the horse and stood, gazing at the lone scraggly hut perched on the edge of a cliff that looked out over the far side of the forest, that he'd seen pictures of almost everything and that most of those pictures were far more interesting than reality. Chris didn't seem to have a fortress, hordes of gold, or a harem of wayward monks. The pictures always showed those things. JC blinked and look at the hut again. It wasn't even a very big hut.

"Where's everything else?" he asked.

Chris looked at him quizzically and then laughed.

"This is it," he said and motioned for JC to follow him.

The hut was even more of a disappointment on inside. It smelled unused and musty. There were sleeping mats on the floor, rolled and tied, and a small stove pit in the center of the room with a metal frame resting above it.

"There's some clothes over there," Chris said, pointing at a wooden chest that had been pushed into one corner, hidden in the shadows. It was the only furniture. "You can put your robes in it once you've changed." And then he left, walking back outside.

JC looked around the hut. That took him twenty seconds. He waited a few minutes and then went outside. He didn't see Chris. JC took off his shoes and looked at them for a moment, then dropped them in a tall patch of grass and started walking back the way he came, ignoring how much his feet hurt. According to everything he'd learned he was supposed to just wait patiently and trust the gods and the Lady to guide him back where he belonged. He'd always known trust was overrated. This was just the first time he'd acted on that knowledge.

"You're going the wrong way," he heard a few minutes later. He turned around and Chris was behind him, grinning and rocking back and forth on his heels. For a moment JC was reminded of Boy during the rare moments when Boy actually acted his age. JC turned back around and started walking again.

"You have nice feet," Chris said.

JC kept walking.

"I'd hate to cut them off," Chris said.

JC stopped walking.

 

 

When they got back to the hut, Chris followed him inside and looked at him for a moment. He wasn't smiling anymore.

"Change," he finally said and stood there, arms crossed across his chest.

It was awkward, taking off his robes without any help at all--he'd gotten used to having Boy around-- but JC managed. He folded the fabric carefully, placing the red sash that was wrapped around the waist of his bottom robe, the one that only people who paid for him got to see, on top. He stood naked for a moment, looking at the clothes he was supposed to wear. They were plain and old, the fabric soft with age. He wasn't sure how to put them on and it took him a moment to remember that peasants slipped their shirts on over their heads. He heard a noise, a soft sound, and turned around to see Chris staring at him. His eyes looked a little dazed. JC smiled to himself. He'd seen Chris's look on countless faces before. Normally it didn't mean anything but now it made him feel powerful. He thought that maybe what Chris had done before wasn't entirely about insulting what JC was.

He slid one hand down his stomach slowly. He knew everything about desire and it was easy, so easy. He liked knowing that he could create it no matter what. Chris was still watching him. JC liked that too. As he watched, Chris took a step towards him. JC smiled, the smile he gave everyone that walked towards him, wanting, and Chris stopped moving.

"Stay inside," he said, and although his voice was emotionless, his eyes weren't. They were angry. He went outside. JC got dressed and waited for Chris to come back, but he didn't. He heard voices occasionally, people calling Chris's name hesitantly and then having conversations that were too soft for him to hear anything of. Chris came inside only once, muttering to himself as he heated water over the fire, then grabbing two small cups--JC recognized the Lady's seal on them--out of the chest. He made tea then, and didn't once look at JC while he did it.

Maybe, JC thought, Chris would listen to him now. "The Lady isn't going to come for me," he said quietly, "She won't offer you any ransom. You won't gain anything, not from this, from me, and I don't--"

Chris sighed, but didn't say anything. JC was used to being ignored, but not like this. Not so deliberately.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asked, anger making him daring.

"I heard," Chris finally said. "She'll come, if only because talk about her and the Steward will get worse if she doesn't."

"I--you know?"

"Everyone knows."

JC couldn't think of anything to say to that. He shifted a little, glanced over at Chris. Chris was watching him but when he noticed JC looking back at him he turned his head away and got up. He paused by the door, tapping his fingers against it restlessly, and then went back outside, taking the cups with him.

JC could hear the shocked voice of whomever Chris was talking to. Tea was something that most people grew but never got to drink. It was far too expensive. When JC was brand new to the city, he'd been so happy to drink tea every day that he'd had cups of it with each meal. It was only when he was handed the bill for how much he owed for his entire stay, the figure he had to work off before he was free to go, that he realized how expensive it was. And by then it was too late and he owed more money than he could ever repay. His only way out had been the way he'd left. With someone else paying to own him.

When Chris came back inside it was later, much later. The sun had set and the hut was dark, barely lit by the faint glow of the embers of the fire. Chris added more wood and then lit a paper lantern, whistling under his breath. He stopped when he saw JC was still up, sitting on the floor watching him. As JC watched, Chris's mouth twisted up into an almost smile, and then he went back outside for a moment and returned with a string of small fish. He roasted them over the fire silently, his gaze no longer turning away from JC's when he noticed JC watching him. When the fish were done, he motioned for JC to take some of them. JC ate, conscious of Chris watching him the entire time.

"You want me," JC finally said.

"You're made for wanting."

That stung, somehow, but JC shrugged his shoulders, leaned forward so the light caught the line of his throat.

"If you let me go--"

"Only when the Lady comes for you."

"She isn't going to come."

Chris shrugged. "You know her so well then?"

"I'll do anything." JC had never had anyone turn away from him once he said that. He got up and knelt next to Chris, turned his palms up in entreaty.

Chris stared at his hands, then looked back up at him. As JC watched, Chris swallowed and something flashed across his eyes briefly and then vanished.

"Anything," Chris said quietly, and touched the tips of his fingers to JC's palms, a caress. A promise.

JC bowed his head to show he understood the promise Chris had made and then drew his hands back, put them on his knees. He knew what to do now.

"What would you like?" he said formally, the opening remark every courtesan made every time he was alone with someone who'd purchased him for the evening.

Chris didn't say anything. JC looked up at him. Chris was tapping his fingers against his own crossed legs, looking thoughtful.

"What was it like?" he finally said.

"What was what like?"

"Living in the pleasure quarter."

JC looked back down at his hands.

"You said you'd visited," he said and then cleared his throat because he wasn't supposed to say that. He took a breath and started again. "I learned many things. I could show you--"

"Do you miss it?"

"No." JC spoke before he thought. He wished he was wearing his robes. It would have made everything more familiar. He wasn't used to Chris's type of questions. He was used to flirting, to questions about what he could do, would do. It was very odd to answer questions that were just about him.

"I mean--" he said but Chris had already gotten up. As JC watched he unfolded the sleeping mats and lay down.

"Should I--?" JC said quietly and then bit his lip, got up and walked towards Chris. Chris looked at him, waited till JC was almost to the edge of the mats and then rolled over, turned so his back was facing JC.

Rejection. A courtesan of high rank--higher than JC had ever been--could actually refuse customers, and would do so by turning his back on them, signaling that they were not worth his time. It wasn't done often, and those that were rejected were often the subject of vicious gossip in the pleasure quarter for weeks, the butt of jokes in the newest plays, laughed at by everyone, even those who were deemed too untouchable to work as peasants.

JC had been rejected by visitors to the quarter before, women asking to meet him and then declaring he was too tall or too skinny or that his eyes were too small or his nose was too large, but he'd never had this. What Chris had just done was--JC went back over and sat down on the other edge of the fire. What Chris had done was shame him, insult JC not just for what he was, but for who he was, the offer he'd made.

Chris hadn't even given him a mat to sleep on. JC forced himself to lie down on the floor, his face resting against the ground. He'd felt anger before--it had been his constant companion his first few months in the city, when he was a trapped child realizing what his world was going to be--but it had never been like this, so white hot that he was shaking with it.

He knew Chris wanted him. He knew what wanting was, what it looked like and Chris's refusal of that desire--JC could understand that. He'd seen many women who were uncomfortable with what he was, who visited him and kept scorn on their face and in their eyes the whole time. But this was different. This seemed to be directed just at him. JC lay there quietly, pressing his hands into the ground, and thought.

Chris pretended to be asleep for a long time. JC lay there, keeping his own eyes closed, his breathing even and steady, and waited. He waited even when he heard Chris roll over towards him later, watching him so intensely that JC could feel his gaze even behind his closed eyes. He knew the night, kept its hours. He knew what sleep looked like on people, what it sounded like. It took a long time for Chris to actually let sleep take him, and by the time it did, JC knew what he was going to do.

He got up slowly, carefully, and sat for a moment, watching Chris. After a moment, he crept over towards the chest in the corner of the room. He was going to take his clothes and leave. He could tell, from the way Chris's closed eyelids twitched and the deep slow breaths he was taking, that he would sleep for at least a few hours, long enough for JC to be far away by the time he woke.

An end of JC's red sash dangled out of the chest, caught under the lid. JC used that to help him open the chest silently, slowly. He pulled his robes out and looked at them for a moment, the red sash on top draped over and around his hands.

When the idea hit him, it was like a blow. JC had known strong feeling before; the way he felt the day the broker came to tell him he needed to return home, that he would be leaving for the Lady's home from his father's because his father had requested to see him again as part of the deal that had been struck. That day he'd been almost dizzy with joy. But the way he felt when he turned the sash in his hands, saw the loops of the fabric and realized what he could do--he felt a wave of something so intense, so violent, that he caught his breath for a moment.

He put his robes down carefully, placing them on top of the chest, and then crept over to Chris, the sash clutched in his hands. He forced himself to move slowly, to take his time. With each step he took he checked to make sure Chris was still asleep. When he was close enough he made himself pause for five breaths, visualize what he was going to do. Then he did it.

JC was an expert knot tier. All courtesans were trained in it, expected to know how to bind themselves for a customer's pleasure, how to use those knots on others in case of an emergency, to deal with someone who got violent. Chris woke up as JC passed the fabric of the sash around his wrists. As he jerked up, startled out of sleep, JC pulled the fabric tight and pushed one through the knot he'd created, drawing Chris's wrists together. He ducked out of the way of Chris's hands, pressed together but still knotted into fists swinging for his head, and moved behind him, holding out the remaining fabric of the sash. As Chris rolled towards him, cursing loudly, the fabric twisted around his neck. Chris's fist hit his ear, caught the side of his head, and JC scrambled back out of range and yanked on the fabric as hard as he could. It tightened around Chris's neck and Chris froze, his wrists still pressed together. JC pulled again and Chris's arms rose up, trying to ease the pressure. The shape of the fabric formed a triangle, from his wrists to his neck and then back. JC reached down and pulled the cloth he held in his hand through the line of fabric at the back of Chris's neck, locking it into the looping knot that could only be untied by another person because the angle of it was designed to foil one's own hands. Now when Chris moved his hands the cloth around his throat would tighten. JC watched Chris realize this, saw him try to yank his wrists down and then freeze, gasping as the cloth cut into his neck.

Chris rolled back towards him, lying on his back, and JC smiled at him, rested his chin against Chris's fists. Chris stared up at him, his eyes huge. He looked both startled and angry, and he jerked his hands down as far as they could go and then up. He stopped, gasping, and his fists rested right where they'd been. JC pressed his chin down a little harder. He heard Chris's breath hitch.

"I'll be sure to have the Lady send someone to release you," JC said and smiled more at the look that flashed across Chris's face. He got up and went over to the chest, stripping off the clothes Chris had given him and leaving them on the floor. He put on his first robe but couldn't tie it closed. He smiled again and turned to Chris. Chris was lying there, his face turned towards JC's.

"Untie me," he said. JC walked towards him slowly, deliberately using the rolling walk he'd learned in the pleasure quarter, to show that he knew what he was, why Chris had turned him away, and sat down, straddling Chris's hips. Chris's fists jerked towards him again and JC grabbed his wrists, tugging at the fabric. Chris's head fell back and the line of cloth across his throat tightened, his breath cut off for a moment.

"I like you better like this," JC said and felt that frightening exhilaration roll over him again. Power. He finally understood why women were so interested in it. He'd never had anything like it before.

"Untie me," Chris said again. His face was flushed and his voice had gone thick, hoarse.

"No," JC said, and leaned forward, enthralled. He put his hands on Chris's wrists, traced the line of the fabric, felt the fluttering beat of Chris's heart in the pulse under his skin, and tugged lightly. Chris's head dropped back, his hands flexing, his fists uncurling and JC stared at the line of his throat, the white length of it bound with red, heard the soft strangled gasp of Chris's breath, lower this time.

When he let go of the fabric Chris looked up at him. He looked at him for a long time, and his gaze made JC's skin prickle. When Chris blinked, his eyes falling closed, JC wanted that gaze on him again. He put his hands on Chris's wrists.

JC pressed his fingers into the fabric and Chris opened his eyes and moaned, his hips lifting up, grinding against JC. JC gasped and pressed back. His erection was instantaneous and almost painful. When he let the fabric go Chris's face was almost too much for JC too look at. His expression was raw, a million different emotions running across it. It looked like a secret.

He ran a finger down the length of Chris's throat carefully, over the cloth and then up again, looking at the arching lines of it, the vulnerability it held. He pressed his fingers against the fabric briefly, felt Chris's throat shift under his hands, heard the soft sound of Chris's breath. JC took a shaky breath of his own. He'd spent a great deal of time learning the value and desirability of the proper display of the skin on one's neck, one's throat. He'd never understood why, never really understood the effect that skin had on others. Now he did.

He could do anything and the choices were overwhelming. He looked over at the door, the neat pile of his robes on the chest, waiting for him. He looked back down at Chris again, carefully curved his hands over Chris's wrists. Chris's eyes sparked. JC knew what pleasure looked like, but he'd never wanted that look, not for himself, not like he did now. His whole body felt tight and hot, aching. He could do whatever he wanted.

He moved his hands down, pressed them against Chris's chest, and watched Chris blink rapidly, listened to the sharp short sound of his breath. JC pushed Chris's shirt up as far as it would go and then touched his skin, fascinated by the contrast of covered and uncovered, sliding his fingers up under the bunched fabric to touch Chris's nipples, his shoulders. His skin was like every other man's, pale where the sun didn't touch it and straight in places where a woman's curved, but JC kept touching anyway, still staring at the red cloth, the line of Chris's wrists, his throat. He noted what made Chris's breath hitch and the knots tighten, did it again and again.

He bent down to lick Chris's stomach, angling to work over and around the folds of the cloth that lay across Chris's chest, and paused to push the robe he was wearing off.

Chris inhaled sharply and JC saw Chris looking at him. He saw Chris's flushed face and wide eyes, his pupils dilated, pleasure-drugged. JC heard a moan, low and ragged, and felt his back arch in response, his whole body tightening. He heard it again and Chris pushed his hips up, his erection grinding against JC, his throat thrown back, the cloth a vivid contrast against his skin.

"More," Chris said, and JC realized he was the one moaning, felt another one vibrate up his throat to the sound of Chris's voice. He froze for a moment, stunned by what wanting, real wanting, sounded like, and then he moved, slid down to unfasten Chris's pants. He ran his hands over the slight curve of Chris's stomach, shivered at the feel of it. Women's stomachs normally curved slightly too, and JC knew the feel of those, knew the right words to say. He couldn't remember any of them for Chris, could only stroke his fingers down, down, and grind his teeth against the pleasure he felt, something not created by drink and a desire to please but stronger, sharper.

JC was good at undressing people, the lingering touches that made it memorable, left those waiting for him quivering. He'd learned how to unbutton and unfasten robes with his teeth, his toes, his fingers. He undressed Chris the rest of the way now deliberately, artfully, using all the skills he'd been taught. Chris arched into his touch, hands and throat straining, and JC's hands were sure, learned knowledge guiding him, but shaking. He couldn't help touching the skin he revealed; the press of bone at the top of Chris's hip, the line of the muscle that ran from his thigh to his knee, the hollow behind the bone at the top of his foot, the curve of the arch of his foot. He had to pause and touch himself, closing his eyes and trying to remember what he'd learned, where he was, who he was. The pleasure he was feeling beckoned, and JC could feel everything he knew falling away. It felt dangerous and good and he wanted a moment to gather himself, to pull free of the spell he and Chris had woven.

JC stroked himself, hovering over Chris with his eyes closed. He heard a noise, a soft rustling sound, and opened his eyes to see Chris watching him, sliding down towards him. As JC watched, one hand wrapped a around himself, Chris moved so that the next forward push of JC's hips brought the tip of his erection against Chris's mouth. JC froze, everything he was trying to remember flying away, and then did it again, his hands moving to grasp Chris's wrists. Chris moaned and JC looked at him. Chris's eyes were closed and his mouth was open, panting. JC could see the dark pink-red gleam of his tongue, the soft curve of his lips.

He pushed his hips forward again. Chris's mouth opened wider, his tongue gliding across JC's skin. JC knew the noises he was hearing, the soft grunts and sighs, came from himself and thought of the sounds he should be making, the words he should be saying, that he'd always said, but didn't, lost staring at the shape of Chris's mouth, the tight circle of it, as he sucked the tip of JC's cock.

He traced the shadows under Chris's cheekbones and along his jaw with one finger, touched his hair, his face, the soft skin right below his closed eyes, skimmed the tips of his fingers along Chris's eyelashes. He touched Chris's wrists next, pressing his thumbs into the cloth and feeling Chris's mouth tighten around him as his air supply lessened, then fumbled back with his hands and rubbed Chris's erection in time to the pull of Chris's mouth on his skin. He felt Chris quiver in his hand, heard a sobbing sound leave his own mouth. He squeezed and there was hot dampness covering his palm, leaking out over his fingers.

JC came then, felt like he was falling and falling and falling even though he wasn't moving at all.

Afterwards he slid down Chris's body, dared to rest his head in the hollow between Chris's neck and his shoulder. He could hear Chris's heart hammering rapidly in his chest, touched his skin and felt the way it prickled as it cooled. He sat up suddenly, hovering over Chris, and bent down, touched his mouth to Chris's. He'd never done anything like that before, had never even thought of it. Chris was still bound, his wrists crossed against each other and the fabric looped around his neck. JC didn't think he would have dared otherwise.

Chris made a sound, a shocked exhalation of breath. JC felt it against his mouth. His lips felt extraordinarily sensitive, the friction of Chris's mouth resting against his own sending prickles of sensation racing up his spine. He took a deep breath and pulled away, wondered what he'd see in Chris's eyes. Sex was one thing. What he'd just done--JC had never had anyone ask for a kiss. He'd never wanted to give anyone one.

Chris was staring at him, at his mouth.

"JC," he said softly. His lips were parted. JC stared at them, the slightly fuller swell of the lower, the thin curve of the upper, and felt his heart knocking against his chest. He lowered his mouth.

They were both hesitant at first, unsure, their lips brushing against each other's light, just testing. As their mouths grew familiar with each other's they grew less tentative and even more daring. JC realized why kissing was so taboo, why he'd been told never ever to do it during his training. It was so intimate. He could taste Chris, touch his tongue to the tender surfaces of his mouth, share his breath. The only thing JC could taste was Chris. Kissing shut out the rest of the world.

JC slid down so he was resting against Chris again, put his hands against Chris's sides. He felt a hesitant light touch on his hair, a brush of fingers and moaned, feeling the vibrations of it in Chris' mouth. He wished Chris were touching him. He'd reached for Chris's hands before he realized what he was doing and then froze, his fingers brushing against the fabric around Chris's wrists.

He pulled away from Chris and opened his eyes. The walls of the hut stared back at him, shabby and grim and seeing them, remembering where he was, it was a shock. He'd truly forgotten everything. Everything. That had never happened to him before. JC got up quickly and grabbed his robe off the floor.

He glanced back over at Chris as he picked his other robe off the chest. Chris's eyes were closed and a muscle in his jaw twitched, flexing against the skin. Then he opened his eyes and looked so angry and shocked and --almost frightened-- that JC had to take a step back. He went outside, not looking back. The sun was starting to rise. JC stared at it for a moment, then looked down at the robe he held in his hand. It looked unfamiliar and for a moment he had no idea what to do with it. His mind raced over a million different things and then his gaze swept over the mountain. He could see the curve of the road. He knew what lay at the end of it. It was familiar. Safe. He pulled the rest of his robes on and started walking.

The sun was high in the sky when the Steward found him walking across the forest at the very edge of the Lady's land.

JC told him he'd gotten lost. The Steward looked at him for a long time, his eyes taking in JC's bare feet, the wrinkled creases of his robes, and then he nodded.

"You shouldn't go out walking alone," he said softly, mildly.

JC bowed his head, made a formal apology. When he looked up the Steward was staring out into the forest, his mouth set in a thin line.

They went back to the house. The Steward had brought a litter with him and JC rode in it. He kept the curtains closed, not looking at anything. His feet hurt. He made sure he thought about them and nothing else.

 


	7. Chapter 7

JC wasn't sure what he'd expected when he got back, but he knew it wasn't what happened. He'd walked back into the house, passed by two servants scrubbing the steps. They didn't seem to notice him. He spent the rest of the day in his rooms, sitting on the floor and watching the sun's progress across it. He was called to attend the Lady as night began to fall, sat quietly behind her while she drank tea and looked out the open verandah, gazing at the view of the mountain. JC kept his hands folded together and waited for something, anything. Finally, when the sun had set and the room was full of shadows, she spoke.

"Sing for me," she said.

JC did. When he was done, she gestured for him to leave. The moon lit her face. She was watching the sky, one hand touching her stomach.

"You weren't hurt?" she said quietly. "The forest can be…dangerous."

JC looked down at the floor. It had been polished with sand until it gleamed, and he could see a blurred shape looking up at him. He'd crossed his hands together, like they'd been bound. He let them drop by his sides.

"No," he said, and left the room. He passed the Steward in the hallway. There was a bruise on his throat, a tiny blue-black mark shaped like a mouth. It hadn't been there earlier.

The robes he'd been wearing were returned to him two days later, neatly pressed and folded. Boy shot him a cautious look when he came into the room with them; bit his lip as he put them away.

"I thought about running away once," he said in a rush, the words quiet and hesitant, punctuated with the slight whistle of the gap between his front teeth.

"I was lost," JC said. "I wasn't--"

Boy flushed, looked away.

"When I was in the city," JC said, and stopped for a moment, looked at Boy's face. "Then I wanted to run as far and as fast as I could. But--here. This is more than I ever thought--" His stomach clenched. This was what he'd always wanted. The misery of it made him ache.

Boy got up and started straightening the rest of the room, carefully opening the shutters. Close them, JC wanted to say as he saw the green tips of trees come into view. Instead he watched and saw them sway in the wind.

"Don't tell anyone," Boy said. "What I told you. I thought--"

"I won't," JC said. He didn't know what else to say.

Boy kept straightening up the rest of the room, moving items that were already exactly where they needed to go. He clearly wanted to be somewhere--anywhere--else. JC watched him for a moment and then said, "You can go."

He tried not to notice the way Boy practically ran out of the room. He looked out the window for a while.

The cuts on his feet were healing. He could feel the scabs itching. He turned his face up towards the sun. It was warm.

He kept waiting for something to happen.

Nothing did.

 


	8. Chapter 8

One afternoon a few weeks later he saw the Steward talking to a kitchen servant as he crossed through the house to the garden. The Steward saw him coming and smiled, a formal smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, bowed his head slightly. The other servant, who'd been talking, low-voiced, fell silent and bowed his head too. His face was drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. When they were out in the garden, Boy asked JC if he needed anything and didn't wait for a reply before leaving. JC watched him go and looked at the garden. It was surrounded by a fence and full of carefully arranged rocks. He liked it. He felt safe there.

"What happened?" JC asked Boy when he came to his rooms later carrying a basin of water JC would need to get ready.

Boy was smiling but when he heard JC's question his face twitched, his eyes going wide and startled.

"Do you want me to heat the water?" he said.

JC shook his head.

Boy shuffled his feet against the floor for a second. Then he put the water on the dresser and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs and fiddling with the hem of his tunic. "Today, two people were," he said and then drew one finger across his throat. "For stealing. The day of the ceremony, when--"

"I remember," JC said quickly. "But who were they? And why would that bother--?"

"They had family here," Boy said. "Working in the kitchen."

JC looked at Boy. Boy looked back at him.

"Villagers?" JC said. His voice felt trapped in his throat. He didn't want to think about why he wanted to know.

Boy fidgeted a little, clearly nervous, and then nodded. JC looked down at the water, felt the constriction in his throat ease. Chris was--he forced himself to think of something else, anything else. He touched a finger to the water's surface and watched it ripple outward. He thought about the people who died, the sadness on the servant's face. He didn't understand why villagers would--

"Oh," he said, and thought of the silence that greeted the Lady when she'd rode into town the day of the ceremony, the way the people watched her. The looks on their faces. Their silence when she spoke. They fought against her. He looked at Boy.

"There are guests tonight," Boy said. "Important ones." He obviously wanted to change the subject. JC wondered if Boy had family in the village. He'd never asked.

"Tell me about them," he said, and watched Boy smile.

 

 

 

The guests were very important, messengers from the Empress who'd traveled just to see the Lady. JC dressed carefully, not saying anything when Boy couldn't find the red sash for his first robe and had to make do with a yellow one.

"I'm sorry," Boy said as he knotted the two ends together and passed them through the loop he'd created. "I thought it was…I'll look for it and I'll--"

"The yellow is fine," JC said. He'd put his other red sash deep in the cupboard, folding it under and between the space between a drawer and the wooden frame. He hoped Boy didn't find it.

The Lady was waiting for him, sitting on the floor beside the table. The Steward was next to her. He'd looked like he just woken up, his eyes sleepy and stunned. He got up when JC walked into the room and went out into the hallway, sliding the door closed so hard that the screen rattled. JC poured her a cup of wine and sat down behind her, waiting. She glanced at him, opened her mouth, and then closed it.

When the guests came in she got up to greet them. Court language was elegant and endless and JC's feet fell asleep as formal greetings were exchanged. The messengers then passed sealed scrolls to the Lady, which she took with a smile and polite words of thanks. When they sat down at the table, she motioned for him to sit beside her and drank cup after cup of wine. JC had to drink with her and it was only midway through the meal, with the room gone bright and fuzzy around him, that he noticed she wasn't actually drinking, was having the servants remove a full cup as they cleared one course and return it empty during the next.

He tried to follow the conversation at first but gave up after the fourth toast to the Empress's reign, which was five toasts after the ones that had been made to her health. He heard the word engagement though, said as two silent kitchen workers presented a whole broiled fish to the table, and saw the Lady smile, as brittle as spun glass, and motion for him to fill everyone's cup again. He had to bite the inside of his cheek hard as he poured, the pain reminding him to keep his hand steady. The guests--two of them, both exquisitely dressed older women--ignored him, continued to talk.

"It is a great honor," the first woman said, and touched the table delicately, her long painted fingernails tapping against the wood tabletop.

"It is a great honor," the Lady said quietly. "But I cannot accept now. The trouble with my lands--"

"Bandits," the woman said, and motioned for JC to move away from her, two fingers flicking at him as if he was a fly. JC went and sat behind the Lady, hoping she wouldn't want more wine. Outside, the mountain blurred and shifted into two mountains, then three.

"Yes," the Lady said. "I hadn't known you'd heard of my troubles, as insignificant as they are."

"A temple robbed, the imperial homage collectors attacked?" the second woman said. She smiled, but it was not a kind smile. "Everyone has heard. There is talk that you forget what your duties are." She picked at a piece of fish delicately, motioned for JC to come and remove the meat from the bones for her. JC did so, biting the inside of his lip again. The fish spun around on the table under him. The smell made his stomach knot. He was hungry and the sight of the fish made him think of things he didn't want to remember.

"I know my duties," the Lady said sharply. JC moved back towards her and she gestured for him to pour another glass of wine for himself, one hand resting against her stomach, plucking the fabric of her robes gently. Her fingers were shaking a little. "I have simply vowed not to align myself to anyone until my lands are secure. Marriage is not something to be entered into lightly."

Marriage. If that happened, JC would be sent away. He drank the cup he'd just poured for himself, watched the Lady as she took a sip of her own wine and returned the cup to the table still mostly full. The most he could hope for after the Lady's marriage would be a home on one of her other properties. JC didn't think that would happen. The Lady would doubtless have enough on her hands with a husband and her Steward under one roof. The bottle he was holding wobbled in his hands and a thin stream of wine spilled out onto the table. He brushed the sleeves of his robes across it, hoped no one noticed.

No one did. The Empress's messengers were watching the Lady, their carefully shaved eyebrows rising in surprise.

"You wish to wait?" the first woman said, removing a scroll from the bundle that the Lady had placed on the table in front of her and placing it on top of the pile, "Are you quite sure that is wise? You must be anxious to align your family with one as prestigious as that which the Empress has chosen for you."

"I am grateful that she values me so highly," the Lady said. She glanced towards the door, to the screen that had been pulled shut when the Steward left.

"Indeed," the second woman said. "I am sure your troubles will end soon."

Shall we have a song?" the Lady said, her voice a shade too fast and too high, and gestured for JC to sing. JC did and was conscious that no one was listening to him. The Imperial messengers were carefully watching the Lady and looking at each other. The Lady was smiling, her head turned towards him but her eyes fixed on a point only she could see.

The rest of the evening passed with exquisite slowness. Finally the guests stood up and bowed formally, wishing the Lady a good night and good fortune. She turned to him once they were gone, her face shuttered and her eyes bleak.

"You may go," she told JC, then leaned in closer and said, low-voiced, "Please tell the Steward to attend me."

JC nodded. The Steward was in the hallway, kneeling in ceremonial guarding of the room. The Empress's messengers twitched their robes away from him as they walked past. He looked up when JC approached him, his eyes searching JC's face.

"She wishes to see you," JC said and the Steward nodded. JC started to walk away. The Steward touched his arm.

"Is she--?" he asked, and then stopped, pressed his lips together. He walked into the room, sliding the door carefully closed behind him.

JC went back to his own rooms slowly. The hallway tilted under him and he walked carefully. He would send Boy to the kitchens for something to eat. He was used to drinking wine on an empty stomach but not so much. He wished he knew what was going on, what the Lady was going to do. He'd wished for a lot of things. Most of them had never happened.

Boy was asleep on the floor in front of JC's door, curled up on his pallet. JC bent down, holding on to the wall with one hand, and shook his shoulder. Boy mumbled something and rolled over. JC started to shake him again and then paused. Boy looked exhausted even though he was asleep, dark circles ringing his eyes. JC touched the edges of Boy's hair and Boy exhaled, rolled onto one side and curled his hands up under his chin. JC straightened up and slid the door open.

It was dark inside. Boy normally left the shutters open a bit but he must have forgotten. JC walked carefully across the room, taking off his shoes and dropping them on the floor. His bare foot brushed the edges of the sleeping mats and he sighed, glad Boy had at least gotten those ready for him. He tugged at the knots tying his outer robes closed, his hands clumsy because of the dark and drink.

He noticed the smell first. He never lit incense in his rooms but he smelled it, the crisp scent of the forest-scented sticks. He tried not to think of the forest anymore. He turned around and saw that a stick had been lit, a bright point of light in the corner of the room. Chris was standing there, holding the incense burner in one hand. The light caught his face, made it look harsh and almost demonic, the curves of his eyebrows, the straight slash of his mouth. The light hit his cheekbones as well, but cast the rest of his face into shadow. JC sucked in a breath, sure he was dreaming. The shutters were closed. No one could have gotten in. The room spun around him. Chris was still there.

JC closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the room wasn't spinning. Chris put the incense holder down and took a step towards him. It wasn't a dream, JC realized, and started to turn towards the door. Chris crossed the room in a flash, grabbing his arm and yanking him back, his other hand coming up to cover JC's mouth. That same hand slid to JC's throat, pressing down. JC tried to speak but all he could do was gasp. His mind felt thick and slow. He could hear his heart beating, a roaring sound in his ears. Chris didn't say anything. After a moment, his hand lifted away from JC's throat. JC opened his mouth to talk and Chris's hand pressed against it again. His skin was warm, and sharp tasting, salty. Real. He turned to look at Chris.

Chris blinked and JC saw that, the bright curve of his eyelids, and then they opened again. His eyes opened and they were as dark as the room. JC stared at them, fascinated. Chris's hand slid down off his mouth again, curved down his chin, across his throat.

"I decided," Chris said, and his voice was harsh, a loud whisper in JC's ear, so sudden that the room rolled around him again, "that I owed you a visit."

Revenge. That was what JC had been waiting for. He knew that, the return of customers who hadn't been happy with him, who waited with a light in their eyes that he'd dreaded at first and grown to meet with resignation later. He understood it, knew how to get past it, that it was something that would flare up and burn itself out, end. What he didn't understand was how he felt.

He knew he should be afraid, and he was, but at the same time there was something else, a waiting, and it held him just as tightly as his fear did. Chris leaned in closer, pressed his mouth to JC's neck. He inhaled and JC felt Chris's mouth open, the warm wet feel of it. Then Chris bit down lightly, his teeth grazing JC's skin. JC shuddered, his fear shifting into something else altogether, and Chris's mouth moved down, dragging across skin to rest in the juncture where JC's neck met his shoulder. He felt the sharp quick pinch of Chris's teeth again, bright hot, and JC gasped. One of Chris's hands came up to rest against his throat, pressing lightly and then not so lightly as he pushed JC's head forward, his mouth brushing against the back of JC's neck.

JC hadn't thought about Chris, wouldn't let himself remember what had happened; what he'd done, how it felt. He hadn't wanted to remember, had been afraid of it. It all came rushing back, fast and hard, leaving him shaking. JC knew what he should do; shove his head back quickly, hit Chris's head with his own, stun him and whirl away, holler and wake Boy, alert everyone to what was going on.

He saw himself doing it, the sudden turn, his voice calling out, but he didn't. He reached out with one hand instead, circling his fingers around Chris's hand, capturing his wrist. Chris froze, his mouth still pressed to JC's neck, and his fingers pressed tighter into JC's throat.

JC left his fingers where they were and traced the line of Chris's wrists, rubbing against his skin. Chris inhaled sharply and pulled away. JC turned to face him, a lifetime of training falling away, and touched Chris carefully, willingly, one hand on the side of his face, along the edges of his jaw.

They both stood there, frozen, and the light on the incense stick flared as it reached its first notch, starting to mark time. Chris moved then, his hands rising to JC's shoulders, pushing the opening of his robe wider, pressing it down off his shoulders. He traced the curve of JC's throat again, his breathing fast and wild, and JC heard his own breath echo Chris's as Chris touched the top of his chest and then tugged the robe open farther. It fell midway down JC's arms and then stopped, held in place above his elbows, still tied around his waist.

Chris bent his head and licked JC's nipples, first one and then the other. He bit one of them softly and JC heard his voice flare out, a low moaning sound.

Chris lifted his head up and JC stared at his mouth; the way it parted, the shape of his lips. He'd touched that mouth with his own. He could do it again.

Chris pressed a hand to his throat once more, but softly this time, a reminder. Chris remembered too.

JC reached out with one hand, straining against the fabric that bound him, and touched Chris's side, slid his hand under the long dark tunic Chris was wearing and touched his skin. It was hot under his hand and Chris arched into his touch for a moment, his eyes closing. Then he pushed JC's hand away, pulled him down onto the floor. JC could feel the edges of the sleeping mats under his feet, the unyielding wooden floor under his back. Chris pushed open the folds of his robes over his stomach, between his legs, and JC forgot everything.

Chris licked his stomach, the jut of his hipbones, between his legs. It was familiar, something that had happened a hundred times before. JC knew touches, the feel of someone's mouth on his skin. It wasn't something that should startle him but it did and JC pushed his hands out as hard and as far as he could, trying to make everything familiar, safe.

Then Chris's tongue pushed against him, inside him, and that was new. New and terrifying in how it felt, the piercing painful pleasure of it, and JC froze and bit his lip so hard he drew blood, his entire body arching up.

After a moment Chris lifted his head away and looked up at him, his head resting on JC's stomach, one hand stroking between JC's legs. His face was divided into pools of light and dark, the shine of his cheekbones, his eyes, his chin, the rest of his face hidden. His eyes looked frantic, angry and lost, and JC saw something past revenge, something that wasn't so simple. He saw it and wanted it, even though he couldn't name it, was afraid of it.

He reached out, his arms aching as they strained against the fabric of his robes, and his hands hit the low table next to the sleeping mats. Chris pushed up, away from JC, and knocked his hands away. His eyes had gone furious again. JC watched him fumble across the tabletop, face grim and set. He knew what Chris was hoping to find. Something to make him angry, to help him focus.

Chris froze and JC knew what he'd found. A small bottle of oil, still sealed. He had brought it with him for the Lady, to use if she was virgin or if she was too nervous about taking a concubine to relax properly their first night together. Chris picked up the bottle and looked at it, rising up on his knees. JC lay there quietly, watching him. He knew the words to say, the phrases of "I want" and "I need" that everyone always wanted to hear. He'd had customers request to be inside him, the rare male visitor whose wife or mother spoiled him, the women who wanted something different, who sat and looked at him while he told them everything he could do and then replied with what they wanted, waited for him to spread his legs. He couldn't say the words now. They would have conveyed what he wanted and he wasn't sure what it was.

Chris knelt back over him, his breath against JC's ear, his face, skimming over his mouth. JC lifted his head up, caught the edge of Chris's lips with his own. Chris exhaled sharply and turned, pressing his mouth fully against JC's.

"I won't hurt you," he said quietly, fiercely, and JC nodded, his own face against Chris's. Chris already was, was breaking him open, showing him things about wanting that JC didn't want to know, didn't think anyone should know. He watched as Chris opened the bottle, breaking the paper seal. The light caught Chris's eyes again and JC didn't want to see them, closed his own.

Chris touched him again, everywhere. When he was finally inside JC, pushing in slowly, his breath an electric shock against JC's neck, in his ear, JC shuddered. All the wine he had should have dulled what he was feeling but it didn't, hadn't, and everything Chris did made his entire body ache with pleasure, so intense he thought he might die from it.

Chris kissed him as he began to move, his tongue pushing into JC's mouth in perfect time to the way he pushed inside JC's body. The only sounds in the room were those their bodies made and they were like a song, one JC had never heard before. He came before Chris did and felt what the convulsive movements of his body did to Chris, heard the way his breath caught. Chris's hands fumbled between them, and when he came JC's arms were free. He wrapped them around Chris, trapping himself in a way he hadn't ever before.

 

 

 

JC fell asleep. He'd never done that before. Every concubine was trained to wait for the person they were with to fall asleep, to make sure they were comfortable, to watch and wait for them to rise. He woke up with a start, his whole body jerking into awareness. The room was still dark.

Chris was watching him, wide-awake. He looked utterly lost, his eyes confused. The incense stick flared again, hitting another notch, and outside the Lady's guards greeted each other, changing shifts. Chris blinked at the sound of their voices and his eyes cleared. He drew away from JC and got up, moving towards the window. JC watched him, relieved and saddened all at once. He thought that Chris would be much harder to forget this time.

Chris turned back as he opened the window and JC blinked as moonlight hit his face. When he could see again, Chris was still standing there, staring at him. JC looked down at himself. His robes were undone and he could see marks on his body, dark spots on his chest, his stomach. The sash that had held Chris's tunic tied was on the floor still and JC touched it with one hand, his fingers tracing the folds of black cloth.

He looked up and Chris was still watching him. His face darkened as JC watched, filled with an emotion JC couldn't place, had never seen, and then Chris walked towards him, bent down and picked up the sash. He stood there for a moment, and then he moved, bending over JC.

He pushed him backwards hard. JC wasn't prepared for that, fell back onto his elbows. Chris's gentle touches of before were gone, and he wrapped his sash around JC's throat, his mouth. Chris tied his robes closed next, looping the cords around JC's arms so he couldn't move his arms. JC didn't understand, not what Chris was doing, not the angry bitter look in his eyes, not the way his eyes ran down JC's body and then flickered away, fear crossing his gaze for a moment before determination replaced it.

He didn't understand till Chris said, "Get up."

JC didn't move. Chris smiled then, angry and bright, and pushed his fingers against JC's back, twisting against something that made JC gasp and sit up.

"Get up," Chris said again.

JC got up.

Boy was still sleeping out in the hallway, the gap between his teeth whistling as he snored. JC nudged him with his foot as Chris dragged him out of the room, but Boy didn't move, just opened his mouth more and snored louder.

They passed down one hallway, than another. Chris knew the house better than he did. JC looked over at him. Chris was smiling and as JC watched he bent down and slid a knife out of one of his boots.

"I've been here before," he said in JC's ear. JC shivered and jerked back. Chris smiled broader and continued to walk, dragging JC along.

They ended up walking down a long passageway that led to the kitchens. Chris was whistling under his breath as he opened the door and stepped outside. JC could see the guardsmen off in the distance, up at the front at the house looking out into the peaceful night. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out except for a strangled whisper. He closed his eyes.

"Idiots," Chris whispered.

JC opened his eyes. Chris was standing next to him, looking out at the guardsmen with a smile on his face. The knife was still in his hand. JC could see that he wanted to use it.

"Next time," Chris said quietly, and looked out towards the forest. JC didn't move. Chris started walking across the rocks. His footsteps sounded loud. JC still didn't move.

Chris turned back towards him. He smiled when he saw JC's bare feet and then came over, picked him up and started walking. JC closed his eyes again. He tried to kick Chris once and Chris grunted, grabbed his feet and held them still.

"You're heavier than you look," he muttered a few moments later, dropping JC on the ground. JC opened his eyes and looked up at Chris. His teeth were chattering. He didn't seem to be able to make them stop. Chris was kneeling, hands on his knees, looking back towards the house. He looked exhilarated, ready for a fight. JC swore he saw disappointment on his face when the guardsmen's mutters, which had grown closer for a moment, dropped away again.

"Why?" JC said.

Chris stared at him, then reached out and ran a hand up his thigh, an insinuating caress.

"I owe you," he said, his mouth against JC's ear. JC closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. He didn't want to look at Chris's face and moved back as far as he could, stopped by Chris's hand on his arm, pushing him along.

JC hadn't wanted to see the forest again but before he knew it he was inside it once more. He waited until he'd stopped shaking and until Chris had stopped pushing him and moved along beside him, occasionally reaching out to direct JC where to go.

Chris was a good knot tier too. JC couldn't get his arms free but he was past caring about that. He waited until Chris was a little ahead of him, heading down a path only he could see and then JC turned, started running back.

He didn't make it very far. Something yanked at his throat, cutting off his air. He froze, gasping.

"Just enough to hang yourself with," Chris said in his ear, his voice low and soft. "Remind me to tell you how long it took me to untie myself sometime."

 

 

 

They reached the hut mid-morning. JC's head hurt and his arms had gone numb and he was ready to welcome being kidnapped at this point if it meant he finally would get a chance to sit down. Chris took him inside and went straight for the chest that was still in the corner, opening it up and rummaging through it.

"Saved these for you," he said and tossed some clothes in JC's direction. He looked over at JC after a moment and smiled, seeing JC sitting there on the floor, staring at the clothes with his arms still bound to his sides.

"Sorry," he said. "I forgot about the--" He gestured at JC's arms and he was smiling a real smile this time, a smile like the one he'd given JC the first time he'd seen him, his eyes crinkled up at the corners, like he knew a secret JC didn't. JC held his breath as Chris walked towards him.

Chris reached out and touched his face, sliding a finger along the line of his jaw. JC held still but couldn't help himself when Chris lifted his chin up, brushed his mouth across JC's. He tilted his face up, angling his head so his mouth fit against Chris's. JC had always heard that pleasure was a drug -- it was the subject of many government plays urging moderation in visiting prostitutes-- but he'd never realized what that meant, wanting something that you knew you shouldn't, craving something that you thought you should hate. Chris sucked in a breath and kissed JC back, pressing him down against the floor. He untied JC's arms and JC winced as he tried to lift them, bright hot prickles of pain shooting down into his hands as blood rushed back into them.

Chris cursed against his mouth and pulled away. His eyes were dazed and JC watched him fold his hands into fists, pull them away from JC's skin.

"Get dressed," he said, and went outside.

JC got dressed, his hands slow and shaking. He went outside. Chris was looking off into the distance, one hand shading his eyes. When he turned around and saw JC he blinked like he was startled, then wandered off behind the hut. JC looked at the forest. After a moment, he sat down on the ground and waited for Chris.

Chris looked surprised to see him sitting there when he came back. He was leading a horse, jerked his head away as it nipped at him.

"I hate horses," he muttered and JC looked at him, surprised. He knew bandits stole things like horses. It had never occurred to him that they might not like them.

"Quit it," Chris said, turning around and glaring at the horse. "Get up," he said to JC. "We have to go."

"But. Isn't this--?" he said.

"What?" Chris said.

"Isn't this yours?" he said.

Chris smiled at him. "It's a hunting lodge. The Lady used to use it, when she was younger." He got on the horse. The horse snorted and twitched its tail. JC saw the Lady's crest branded on it side, high up and almost hidden by the saddle.

Chris rode over and held a hand out. JC looked at it and then put a hand on the saddle, climbed up behind Chris. He folded his arms across his chest.

"Where are you taking me?" he said quietly.

Chris didn't answer him for a moment. JC stared at the back of his head. Chris had a tattoo low on his neck, right where his spine began. It was an odd spiraling design, colored red and blue. JC thought he'd seen something like it before, but couldn't remember where.

"Somewhere that's mine," Chris said.

 


	9. Chapter 9

He knew the house was Chris's as soon as he saw it. There was no walkway leading up to it; it just appeared as they rounded a corner, tucked back behind some trees near the edge of a cliff. JC had never seen anything like it. The roof was made of slate tile, the kind found on temples, instead of the wooden ones homes usually had. The front door was flanked by two tall guideposts, like those found mounted at checkpoints, and the steps were made of rocks, uncarved and unpolished. Even the wood the house was made of was unusual, darker than normal, almost the shade of volcanic rock.

The house was mostly empty inside, but Chris walked through all the rooms anyway, JC trailing behind him, not sure what to think. He'd never been shown all of a house before. Chris walked in front of him, not saying anything but turning back to gaze at JC occasionally. The house was laid out in a circular fashion, with none of the long series of hallways JC knew from his time in the brothel and at the Lady's. They walked past one room where the door was closed, blocked off with a paper screen painted red and blue. The design on it looked a little like the one on the back of Chris's neck. The last room, the one Chris stopped in, was the largest, with a long series of windows that had been shuttered. Even so, the room was fairly bright, light leaking around the edges of the wood shutters. There was no furniture except a large wooden bench, similar to the kind found in public teahouses, made to seat a family.

Chris was standing near him, close enough to touch. JC looked at him, and Chris frowned a little, walked across the floor to the other side of the room, his footsteps echoing.

"You can open the windows if you want," he said. One of his feet tapped against the wooden floor, impatient for something JC didn't understand.

JC went and opened the shutters, squinting at the sun. When he was done he turned around. Chris was gone.

JC waited, but Chris never came back. He heard footsteps once, crossing the floor outside the room, but nothing else. After a while he ventured back out into the hallway and looked around. The front door was open a bit. JC pushed it open further and stepped outside. He could hear wind whistling through the trees. Chris was sitting on the steps, leaning back with his head against one of the large wooden guideposts. JC started to walk back inside.

"You don't have to go. I'm not afraid of you," Chris said, turning towards him. "You can come outside." His smile was faint, mocking.

The front door was heavy against JC's hand. It closed with a loud, satisfying noise when he pushed it shut, blocking Chris's face. There was a wooden bar that could be lifted up and slid across the door, not to lock people in but to keep intruders out. JC looked at it for a moment and then slid the bar into place.

The house had a garden but it lay at the center of Chris's house instead of off to one side or behind it, and was surrounded by a covered walkway that led into various rooms. The garden was overgrown, grass covering all the pathways, the trees haphazardly pruned instead of carefully shaped. JC heard the front door shake and smiled to himself even though his heart was pounding hard and fast. His few attempts at rebelling in the city had never been met kindly.

There was a stone pagoda in the middle of the garden, carved in the shape of a temple with water running over and around it, and JC stared at it for a long time. It looked a lot like the temple in the village. He wondered what Chris would do when he got back inside. He wondered if Chris would touch him. He wondered if it would be like before. He heard the sound of footsteps walking towards him.

"Lucky for you I know how to climb through windows," Chris said. He was standing on the other side of the garden, hands shoved into the sleeves of his tunic. The faint mocking smile was back on his face and JC realized it wasn't directed at him at all, that Chris seemed to continually be fighting something inside himself. He wished he could see Chris's hands. The concubines he'd shared a room with in the city always said you could tell if someone enjoyed hitting people by the shape of their hands. As he watched, Chris's smile faded, and he took a step forward. JC braced his hands against the wooden branch he was sitting on and bowed his head a little.

"I'm not going to hit you," Chris said sharply. JC left his hands where they were but lifted his head up a bit. Chris was frowning, his eyebrows drawn together. JC stared at him for a moment.

"Will you let me leave?" he asked.

"Not yet." The mocking smile was back on Chris's face.

"When?"

"When I'm tired of you," Chris said flatly, and walked away.

 


	10. Chapter 10

JC didn't realize how hungry he was till he smelled food. The garden had gone dark around him, filled with the sounds of night; of crickets and frogs, and he walked inside cautiously. Chris was sitting in the kitchen, bowls resting on the table around him and the air smelled like spices, rich and fragrant. He spooned a portion of soup into a bowl. His head was wreathed with steam. JC wrapped a hand around the doorframe and stood, watching. It had been a long time since he'd eaten.

Chris looked up and saw him, blinked at the expression on his face. He pushed an empty bowl towards JC and said, "Here. You can eat. I wouldn't--" He broke off and looked away. "You can eat," he said again.

JC went over to the table. He sat down and watched Chris carefully for a moment, then poured himself a portion of soup when Chris was focused on his own. He tried to take as little as possible. Sometimes in the city brothel customers would pass out at the table and JC would sneak food, tiny portions that could be hidden or eaten quickly if necessary. Courtesans were forbidden to eat in front of others, only drank if invited to do so. They were supposed to act like they didn't need anything except the company of the person who'd paid for them.

He waited to eat until Chris had his eyes closed, swallowing the last of the broth in his bowl, and then ate quickly, careful not to make any noise. He put the bowl down quietly and carefully, regretfully. At least he'd gotten to eat. He looked at Chris once more. Chris was watching him, and he was frowning again. He looked angry.

"You said--" JC said carefully.

"I know what I said," Chris snapped. "It just doesn't seem like you were listening. I'm not--" He drummed his fingers against the table rapidly. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said quietly, and pushed another bowl of soup over to JC.

JC looked at him but Chris had turned away, was drinking a cup of tea. His eyelashes lay darkly against his cheeks. JC looked at the line of this throat for a moment, watched the light from the fire reflect off his skin, red-tinged, and then looked back at the soup. He ate three more bowlfuls, felt slow and sleepy afterwards. Nothing happened. Chris was still close by, right across from him, but he wasn't looking at JC at all. I'm always waiting, JC thought, and told himself not to fall asleep.

He woke up with a start later, much later. It took him a moment to realize where he was. The table had been cleared and there was a blanket thrown over him. He sat up, his neck and back aching. There was a rolled up sleeping mat on the floor beside him. JC unfastened it and lay down. The house was silent around him. He tried to stay awake, but the quiet night lulled him back to sleep. He kept one hand on the floor, waiting for Chris's touch, a summoning. It didn't come.

In the morning he found Chris outside, sitting on one of the garden benches sharpening a sword. He was whistling under his breath, but stopped when he saw JC. JC sat down and watched him. He felt useless. Now he knew why people left the brothel when it was still dark out. Waiting till morning made everything much more awkward. And nothing had even happened. He hadn't had to see anyone in the morning in a long, long time. He looked down at his feet.

It was a shock to see they were bare. He'd forgotten that they were. People had once paid extra to see them, had paid to watch him untie his shoes, to touch the arch of his foot, the curve of his ankle. Normally he'd kept them covered at all times, revealed them only when he needed to charm someone, or until a visitor had returned three times in a row, signaling a desire for an extended liaison with him. He curled his toes into the ground and then flexed them out again. He didn't see anything special.

He looked over at Chris. Chris wasn't wearing shoes either. JC didn't see anything special about his feet either. Chris made a humming noise, turned the other side of the sword blade to the sharpening stone. As he leaned forward, one of his feet flexed, and JC stared at Chris's ankle, the line of his calf, the little bit he could see past the hem of Chris's pants. He could see Chris's knee higher up, pressing against the fabric of his pants, and watched Chris's foot slide forward a bit as he paused for a moment, resting his hand against his leg. He blew on the sword blade, tested its sharpness with one finger, his face serious and intent. JC pictured his own hand resting where Chris's was, his fingers curving over Chris's knee. Chris would watch him as JC slid his hand up, and his legs would part for JC to rest between them. Chris's feet would come up too, his legs bracing around JC. JC took a deep breath and looked at the grass. After a moment, he slid his own feet out a bit, closer to Chris's gaze, and then pulled them back. He watched water run in and around the stone pagoda. That seemed safe enough to look at.

"You could make some tea," Chris said after a while, turning the sword against the whetstone again. "Unless you're busy."

"I--" JC said. "Make tea? You want me to make tea?"

Chris stilled the sword. JC tried not to look at it. He knew what weapons--he knew what Chris-could do. It made him nervous in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"Why not?" Chris said.

"Before I--when I was younger, I did. I could." JC said. "But after I... in the city, we weren't allowed near the kitchen or fires because--" Because the worry was that a courtesan would try to burn himself or the brothel down.

"Oh," Chris said. He started to say something else and then stopped. "If you want to," he finally said. "You can." He picked up the sword again.

 

 

 

Although Chris's kitchen was small and JC had slept there, curled up on the floor, it took him a while to find the tea and even longer to find the cups. Chris didn't come to check on him though. JC could hear him whistling outside.

He stared at the glowing embers as he took the kettle off the fire. Chris's house was made of wood. It wouldn't take much to make it blaze. It would be easy. The kettle handle was warm in his hand, almost too warm, and he could hear the water bubbling. Water could burn too; burn skin, make it melt. Chris was still whistling. He was right outside.

JC poured water into two cups and watched the tea steep. His whole body was shaking a bit, and he felt uneasy and almost exhilarated at the same time. It was exhausting. He wasn't used to being with someone for so long. He was used to fleeting intensity, gasps in his ear, nails digging into his back, eyes looking into his. He was used to performing, to people looking at him but not really seeing him. He wasn't used to just sitting with someone, not touching, not getting ready to touch. He wasn't used to being trusted. He certainly wasn't used to making tea.

Chris took the cup that JC handed him with a smile. He'd put the sword away and was sharpening a knife. He sat it down beside the whetstone and its edge glinted dully in the sunshine. JC could have reached out and touched the knife handle, wrapped his fingers around it. He didn't think Chris could move fast enough to stop him.

"You don't have to stand," Chris said. He sounded impatient. He looked at the knife briefly, then cast his gaze back to JC. "I won't try--"he started and then said, "Just sit down."

JC did. Chris's knee was almost touching his. He could smell the sharp metallic scent of metal, the earthy bite of the whetstone. He took a sip of his tea and inhaled its fragrance, crisp and green. Chris drank his tea quickly, thirstily, and JC watched him swallow out of the corner of one eye, watched his eyes slide closed a bit as he tilted the glass to catch the last few drops. He put the cup down with a sigh. The edges of his mouth were wet. JC wrapped his hands tightly around his own cup. Chris turned to look at him. His eyes widened a bit as they caught JC's gaze. He was so close. JC felt his own mouth part a little, waiting. Chris's eyes grew darker. This moment JC understood. He tilted his head to make it easier for Chris's mouth to meet his. He thought of what he could do, of how he could move his body in the limited space around him, hemmed in by weapons and rock and Chris. He looked back at Chris. He looked strong and real and sure. He looked like he could do anything. He didn't reach for JC.

"Why haven't you--?" JC asked.

"Why haven't I what?"

JC looked down at his tea. He hadn't gotten all of the leaves out and he could see fragments of them floating along the bottom, trapped in the water, pushing against the sides of the cup. The warmth of the cup was comforting. His hands were always cold when he was nervous. "You haven't--Most people, they--"he paused. "I know you want me."

"The last time I was in the city," Chris said, "I saw a play. It was about--" he gestured in JC's direction, "and he was kidnapped. His Lady came to rescue him, of course, but not until after the bandit had ravished him to the audience's satisfaction. You saw it too, I guess?"

JC pressed his lips together. "You don't need to mock me," he said angrily. "Why else would you--what do you want from me? What else is there?"

"There's--I've always taken," Chris said quietly. "I thought that you--" He broke off and took JC's cup out of his hands, put it down on the ground. He picked up the knife and started sharpening it again. He didn't look at JC. JC got up after a moment and walked away.

Chris didn't tell him to stop.

 


	11. Chapter 11

JC found paper and ink nestled in a closet next to the bathing room later that afternoon. Chris had stared at him when JC asked if he could take a bath, his eyes running down JC's body so fast JC would have thought he'd imagined it except he saw Chris swallow and look away briefly before turning back to him.

Chris had walked inside with him, helped him fill the tub, disappeared and then returned with an extra set of clothes and a small bottle of camilla oil which he thrust at JC and said "For your hair," quickly, rocking back on his heels. JC put a little oil in the water and sat in the tub, almost dozing, till he realized he was thinking about how his skin would smell. About Chris standing close to him, his mouth hovering over JC's skin, his fingers brushing against him, smiling at the feel of JC's skin sleek and soft beneath his. He didn't fix his hair once he was done. Or rather, he tried, but the feel of the oil on his fingers and the smell of it made him think of what he'd imagined about Chris. About things they'd done. It was unsettling and he was glad when he found the paper.

He took it and the ink outside, checking first to make sure Chris wasn't around. He sat down on the far side of the walkway that ran around the garden, unrolling the paper and placing it beside him. He wrote his name first, his brushstrokes hesitant and a little clumsy. He wrote his father's name next and it looked better, surer and more elegant. He couldn't remember his mother's name and traced out random words instead. Before he knew it his hand was tracing out Chris's name. He paused, the brush lingering in the loop formed by the last symbol.

"You're writing," Chris said behind him. JC turned towards him. Chris was inside, leaning out a window a bit to watch him. He was squinting at the paper. Most men weren't trained how to read or write. JC had only been taught so he could read love letters clients sent him, formal missives carefully copied from guidebooks on how to have a liaison. He had written letters in return, the same words over and over again. He knew hundreds of ways to say love and please and pleasure, how to describe things he could and would do. He'd written 'I am yours' so many times he could draw the characters with his eyes closed. He did, and when he opened his eyes they were there on the page, the ink dark and wet. He looked over at Chris.

Chris was still squinting at the paper. The sun caught his face, showed the faint lines around his eyes, his mouth. His skin wasn't the smooth pale color praised by writers. His eyebrows were thick, arching, not the thin line that most men created or drew in. He had a scar on one hand, a long curving line that ran from one thumb to his wrist. Beautiful, JC wrote, and blended the end of the characters into the beginning of Chris's name. He felt his face heat a bit. _I wish_ , he thought, but couldn't complete the thought. He didn't know what he wished for. He didn't know how to write it either. His wishes had never been important to anyone.

Chris blinked as JC put the brush down, then disappeared back inside. JC tilted his head back against the bench and closed his eyes. He could write a poem later, he thought. He could try to make sense of what he was feeling.

"You know," Chris said quietly and JC opened his eyes to see Chris leaning out the window again, his face carefully turned away from JC's. "What you wrote, it's not--It's true for you. It's--" He took a breath. "It's what you are."

I could touch him, JC thought. He could reach up and trace the line of Chris's jaw, his mouth. His throat.

I want to touch him, JC thought, and folded his hands together, looked back out at the garden. After a while, he heard the front door open, then close.

He got up and walked through the empty house, listening to Chris move around outside, his mind racing, and stopped in front of the screen that was pulled closed, looked at the red and blue pattern painted on it. Chris cursed as he dropped something, his voice loud and almost pained, and JC saw himself walking outside, over to Chris. It wouldn't matter what he said. Maybe he wouldn't say anything. The forest would be there, waiting, the path that led back to the Lady's beckoning. He wouldn't see it. He'd take Chris's hand and pull them both down onto the ground instead. The grass would be scratchy and crisp smelling around them and-

JC pushed the screen open and stepped inside the room.

It was mostly empty, just like all the other rooms. The only furniture was a bed, a large wooden one like those JC had seen in pictures, the kind that people had slept in during the last Empress's reign, before lighter weight and more easily storable bedframes had been developed. The cupboards were empty but there were two chests pushed back against the side wall. One of them was locked. JC opened the other one.

It was full of clothes. He touched them carefully, inhaling the scent of cedar blocks that had been placed inside to keep away moths. His hand brushed against something that wasn't made of fabric, something small and made of metal. He pulled it free. It was a hair clip, the kind that concubines wore years ago, back when they all had to grow hair long enough for a topknot, which they wore to mark what they were. The clip had been folded inside a set of men's robes, black with blue and red designs worked on the sleeves. JC put the clip and the robe down carefully, confused. These things couldn't have belonged to Chris. There were women's clothes in the trunk too, a few that were clearly old but most of which were newer and still held a lingering feel of starch on them, like they'd been washed and put away within the last few years. There was a little girl's sword in the trunk too, neatly wrapped in a piece of cloth, the scabbard soft with age. The same blue red spiraling design was painted on it. He knew Chris was there, watching him, before he spoke.

"You might have asked to see the room," Chris said.

JC put the sword down carefully. Chris walked over and knelt beside him. His face wasn't angry, just surprised and a little sad. JC watched as Chris put the clip and the robe that surrounded it back in the trunk, his hand touching the fabric gently. He went to move the rest of the clothes and his hands hesitated. "These were--" he said and got up, walked away. JC looked at the robes again. They were bright colored, the kind a young woman wore. One of them was fancy enough to be the type of robe a woman wore for her first visit to the city, or for her wedding.

"Oh," JC said softly, and put them back in the trunk, closing the lid. He thought of Chris's voice when he talked about the Lady, the bitterness in it. A tribute for your kindness to all, JC remembered him saying, and wondered what the woman who'd worn those robes had looked like.

Chris was standing out in the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets.

"You were married," JC said softly.

"No," Chris said harshly. "That's not…No."

 


	12. Chapter 12

Chris was gone in the morning. JC didn't quite believe it at first; listened to the silence of the house and walked through its empty rooms waiting for Chris to show up. He waited for one hour, then two, and then he went outside. It was very quiet. The horse was gone. JC looked out at the forest, his heart pounding. He could see the ridge of the mountain where the Lady lived in the distance, the sun shining down on the roof of her home, the village. It was far, but not that far. I could go, JC thought. His feet didn't move.

Chris came back when the sun had just crossed through the midway point, when the light in the garden was still strong and hot. JC had taken a bath. His hair was still damp.

"Oh," Chris said. "You're here." He sounded surprised, his voice wavering, thin.

JC turned to look at him. Chris was leaning against the garden wall, his face pale. His eyes looked unfocused, drunk. His left arm was resting awkwardly by his side. The sleeve of his tunic was darker than the other, wet-looking. There was a cut on his forehead, a shallow graze. JC looked back at his arm. Water was dripping off the edge of his sleeve and landing on the floor, staining it even darker.

"You're hurt," he breathed. Chris shrugged.

"You're here," he said again. "I left. You could have--" He closed his eyes.

JC waited, but Chris didn't say anything else. JC approached him cautiously, stopped when he was a few feet away. "If you have bandages, " he said. "I'll--."

"You'll what?" Chris said.

"I'll help you," JC said quietly. "I've seen--" Weapons weren't allowed in the pleasure quarter but clients snuck them in, used them on courtesans that had scorned or displeased them, brawled when they'd had too much to drink. Killed sometimes for the sport of it. There was no punishment for killing a whore. They weren't classified as citizens, just as servants. "I learned what to do in the city," he said.

Chris told him where to go, closed his eyes and leaned more heavily against the wall. There were bandages in a cabinet in one of the rooms, a room that smelled like Chris. JC looked at the sleeping mats on the floor, at the sword that had been dropped on the floor. There were spots of blood on the scabbard. He went back outside. Chris still had his eyes closed.

Chris's shirt was stuck to his arm and JC pulled at it, then said, "I'll have to cut it."

Chris opened his eyes then, bent and pulled a knife from his boot, passed it silently to JC. JC took it and turned it over in his hands. Chris had his head tilted back. The column of his throat was long and smooth, vulnerable. JC watched it as he cut the fabric away.

Chris had a short gash in his shoulder, but it was deep, oozing. "You have wine?" JC asked and Chris nodded. JC found it in the kitchen and came back, poured it over Chris's skin, cupped some in his hand and then pressed it against the wound. Chris winced, took the bottle out of his hand and drank the rest of the wine that was left, hissing as JC probed the edges of the wound carefully, cleaning it.

"There," JC said as he tied the bandage in place. Chris blinked at him and leaned forward a bit, swaying.

"You should sit down," JC said. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," Chris said. He smiled at JC. "Just catching up on the news, visiting a few people--" His eyes were merry, glazed-over. "I didn't expect to see you," he said. His jaw was close enough for JC to bend down and run his mouth across.

"You've got blood on your shirt," Chris said absently.

"It's all right," JC said, looking away from Chris's face. He touched the hem of his shirt carefully, glanced down at the fabric. There were only a few spots on the shirt. Chris smelled like wine and blood and skin, warm and metallic, a sharp kind of sweetness. It should have been unpleasant. It wasn't.

If JC leaned forward a bit, he could breathe in Chris's ear. A little more, and his mouth would rest against Chris's neck. He folded the hem of the shirt in his hands. Next to him, Chris exhaled and his breath came out in a long ragged sound. JC tugged at the hem of the shirt again, wrapping his fingers in it. He could feel air brushing against his skin. His whole body felt hot and tight, impatient. Chris was watching him.

"You," Chris said raggedly, and JC pulled his shirt over his head, turning so Chris's uninjured arm brushed against him. Chris sucked in a breath and his fingers bit into JC' skin.

JC touched his hand to Chris's. Chris was so close, was touching him. JC leaned forward, pushed Chris back against the wall hard, gasping at the pressure. Chris cursed, and JC pulled back, panting. The sun hit JC's eyes, bright and blinding. It was warm on his stomach. He touched his own skin, his fingers splaying over his abdomen. Chris didn't move. JC moved his hand down a little, fingers touching his erection just a bit, enough for him to want more. He bent his head forward. He could see again. Chris was staring at his hand, his hips, his mouth parted. He looked up and his gaze was like a blow.

"Go on," he said, and his voice was hoarse, soft. JC slid his hand down. The fabric of the pants was rough against his skin. He tugged at the waistband, impatient, and heard Chris inhale sharply again.

"You can--" JC said, and Chris hands tugged at his pants, tugged them down, traced alone his hipbone. JC froze, waiting.

"Don't stop," Chris said. "I want to--"

JC touched himself. Watched as Chris watched him, one hand digging into JC's hip, his breath sharp and fast. The bandage on his shoulder was starting to turn dark. Chris looked up, into his eyes, and JC gasped.

"Touch me," he said, and noticed everything. The stillness of the air around them, the sun falling across the floor, the smell of the air, the way Chris's mouth parted and then twisted up, his eyes lightening with want and triumph and a whisper of fear. Chris touched him and JC pulled him down to the floor. Chris came willingly, and JC pressed his mouth into Chris's neck, bit down on the skin of his throat, sucking as Chris stroked him, watched him come.

They went inside afterwards, JC staring at Chris's tattoos. There was the one on the back of his neck and he shivered when JC licked it, froze and leaned back into JC's touch. He had another one on his back, a long curving design beside his right shoulder blade. The room they stopped in was the last one Chris had shown him. The wooden bench was smooth and cool against JC's skin when he sank down onto it, pulled Chris with him.

Chris had another tattoo on his leg, past his knee, high up on the inside of his thigh. He gasped when JC bit it, muttered something and pulled JC up towards him. JC pressed his fingers to Chris's throat when he rose up. Chris smiled at him and JC pressed his fingers in a little harder, kissed him. Chris gasped and his eyes flew open. This was what he wanted, JC realized. That first day. Here. He wanted me. He wanted me to want him.

"I want--" he said. It was the first time he'd ever said those words and meant them. He put his hands on Chris's hips, sliding them over his hipbones.

"Yes," Chris said.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Chris woke him up in the morning, his legs brushing against JC's when he stretched. JC smiled at him easily, touched Chris's arm and smiled a little more when Chris sat up.

"I've got to…" Chris said and then fell silent. "That is, I should--."One of his hands rested on the floor, fingers drumming a restless rhythm. JC was good at dealing with this sort of awkwardness.

"Here," he said, and got up, gathering up Chris's clothes. It was nice to be able to do this for someone he was happy to see in the morning. Chris took his clothes and nodded once. His face was impossible to read. JC took consolation in the faint red marks on his neck, in the way Chris looked at him as he lay back down naked, the slight flush on his face, right across his cheekbones.

Chris put on his shirt, glancing at JC as he slid it over his head. JC tugged the hem into place, smoothing out the wrinkles. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and smiled at Chris again. Chris didn't smile back, but the flush on his face deepened. "I'll get your shoes," JC said, and went to find them.

Chris was dressed when he returned and was carefully rotating his injured arm back, testing its range of motion. JC sat down in front of Chris, yawning a little. He tapped one of Chris's feet so he'd lift it up, holding the shoe in his other hand.

"I don't need you to put my shoes on," Chris said suddenly, violently, and bent down, yanking them out of JC's hand.

JC nodded and stretched a bit, watching Chris's eyes skim over his throat, his chest. It was an odd thing to be angry about, he thought. Most people liked the attention. He'd had customers in the city pay extra to take him back to bed after he'd gotten them ready to leave. He put a hand on Chris's thigh, a light touch. Maybe Chris was sorry he'd touched him. He was good at making people forget remorse. He wanted Chris to feel the way he did.

"I don't mind helping you," he said.

"You don't mind."

"No," JC said, and moved his hand a little higher.

"How flattering," Chris said, and pushed JC's hand away.

JC folded his hand together, stung. "You can go if you want," he said. Sometimes people just wanted to forget what they'd done in the morning. Maybe Chris was like that.

"I know what I can do," Chris snapped. He paused, took a breath. "You--afterwards. You probably like to be alone."

"Yes," JC said, thinking about the city. The brothel, his tiny room and the corner of it that was his. How, on the rare times when customers stayed, there was the problem of what to say, how to get them to leave quickly, The only time JC had to sleep was in the morning, after the quarter closed for the night and before it opened in the morning, which wasn't a very long time. A customer staying meant more money, but also a very long day that made the coming night that much longer. "It was different with you though," he added. It was. He didn't mind if Chris stayed. He thought, no, he knew he'd like that. He started to reach out to touch Chris again but Chris gave him a look of such utter violence that JC stopped, his hand hovering between them.

"I don't care if you're tired of me," Chris said, bending down so his face was close to JC's. "You don't get to leave." His eyes were narrowed, mean. He touched JC's chin and JC could feel Chris's fingers shaking. He could tell that it wasn't from fear. Chris was trying not to hit him. JC knew what a hand that wanted to be a fist felt like. He knew those touches. It made him angry. Chris had said he wouldn't hurt him.

"I could have left yesterday," he said, and tilted his chin up a bit.

Chris smiled. It was a smile JC had seen before, cruel, mocking.

"You think I wouldn't have found you? You think I was ready to let you go?" His fingers bit into JC's chin harder. All the joy JC had felt upon waking was gone.

 

"You're only good at destroying things," he said quietly. Chris yanked his hand back like he'd been burned, his eyes going wide, startled. Then he laughed, turning his face away.

"Everyone has to have a skill," he said. "You're certainly very good at yours."

 

 

 

JC stayed in the room staring at the play of sunlight on the floor while Chris stomped around rattling doors, his footsteps loud and harsh as they crossed through the house. He felt angry and sad and he couldn't fall back asleep even though he tried. He looked at the bench for a while instead, wondering what had happened to the Chris that wanted him so badly.

He got up to get some tea. Chris was in the kitchen, and his mouth tightened when he saw JC. All he said though was, "Do you want tea?"

"If--If you're having some," he said. Chris's mouth tightened more.

"How about I take you to the city and try to sell you? Do you want that?" he said. His tone was pleasant, but his eyes flashed angrily and his hands were curled into fists.

"If you--" JC said helplessly. What could he do? Try to run, maybe. He didn't think he'd get very far. "If you want."

"So agreeable," Chris said, and his voice was bitter. "Anything I want. Whenever I want it."

"I would think you'd like that," JC said sharply. "Everyone does. And you--you already take whatever you want and--and then it's not enough. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to mean what you say, what you do," Chris said and then flushed a deep, dark red. He looked down at the floor, cursed. "Never mind," he said.

JC stared at him. "But I--" he said.

 

"When I was young," Chris said, looking up and staring at him, just at him, not moving his gaze down to look at JC's body, just looking at him, like JC was the audience he wanted. "I wanted to be a great warrior. I trained with my sister. I thought--my parents didn't think anything of it. They didn't think I'd want what I was learning. I was supposed to know better. They just wanted her to have someone to practice with. I learned archery, fighting, the sword. Everything. I was supposed to forget it once she left. It wasn't supposed to mean anything to me."

"You could have stayed," JC said. "Earlier. We could have--"

"Could," Chris said. "You could be anything. You could do what you want."

What I want, JC thought, and looked at Chris. He thought he knew what he wanted. The thought of it terrified him. He knew how well other people could be trusted. "You could let me go," he said.

"I can't," Chris said quietly. "You mean something to me." He turned away and started making tea. JC watched him, not sure of what to say. They sat in silence while they drank, both of them carefully quiet.

Chris left the room first, pushing away from the table, glancing back at JC once. JC waited until he heard the front door open and close before he spoke.

"I wanted you to stay," he said to the empty doorway, and then felt his face heat, looked down at his cup. It was still mostly full.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chris was sitting on the front steps, his hands full of a mass of twisting white rope. He didn't say anything when JC walked outside.

"What are you doing?" JC asked. His heart was beating so hard he was surprised Chris couldn't hear it. He'd never initiated a conversation that wasn't about sex or wanting with anyone except Boy before. And Boy was a servant. And a child. JC wasn't comfortable with regular conversation. Children were supposed to be silent in the presence of adults, and by the time he was old enough to be expected to carry on a reasonable conversation he was in the city. And courtesans, although expected to be polite and entertaining, were never supposed to speak about anything except desire unless spoken to first. He hadn't had much practice talking about things he supposed regular people talked about.

"Knots," Chris said, and JC thought he maybe looked a little relieved. It made him feel better somehow, the idea that perhaps Chris was nervous too. "This damn net. No wonder all the fish swim through it."

"You're going fishing?" JC asked. He watched Chris tie off one section of the net. The knot was too big. Fishing, JC thought. He closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them, Chris was looking at him. "You could come with me," he said, and then frowned a little, like he was surprised he'd spoken.

JC smiled at him. Chris blinked and went back to testing the knots. After a while, JC sat down beside him and picked up a section of the net. He retied one of the knots. It was a little bigger than it should be, but it could be fixed. He retied it again, pushing his hair out of his eyes so he could see better.

After a while he realized he was humming. When he was young, the fisherman he'd apprenticed with had always sung while he mended his nets, crude cheerful songs. He'd been missing most of his teeth and the ends of all of his words had always come out as more of a low whistle than anything else. JC hadn't thought he'd remembered any of those songs. He thought he'd forgotten what the fisherman looked like. He cleared his throat and looked over at Chris. Chris was looking at JC's hands, but he looked up when JC stilled. He looked startled to see JC watching him, so startled that JC smiled.

"You have a nice smile," Chris said quietly, and his face was relaxed, almost peaceful. Then he seemed to realize what he'd said and stiffened, turned back to the net. He tied another knot that would never catch a fish.

"Thank you," JC said, and leaned over, his hands covering Chris's. He showed him how to tie the net, tug on it to make sure it would hold. Chris didn't pull away from his touch. The rest of the knots he tied looked a little better. JC looked over at him once. Chris smiled back at him. JC turned away and started humming again.

Chris had a nice smile too.

 

 

 

There was a stream. JC didn't see it till they were halfway down the cliff, walking on a sharp winding path that was cut into rock, the view falling away below them. They rounded a corner and then JC saw it, heard the flow of rushing water. JC stopped, looked at the stream and out beyond it. Past the curve of the hills at the base of the mountain showed the valley rolling down to the sea. He thought he could see the ocean a little, banded against the valley, almost out of sight. It would take two days to walk there, maybe three. Not that long, really. He wasn't in his robes. He wouldn't be noticed. He could probably find his father's house fairly easily. Maybe the fisherman he'd trained with so long ago was still alive. Maybe.

"What are you--?" Chris said. JC turned towards him. Chris's face twisted into a frown as he saw the look on JC's face but then it cleared. "What are you looking at?" he asked quietly.

JC pointed out towards the edge of the horizon, conscious of Chris standing near him. The sun caught his hair, gilded it glossy and dark. It looked soft. JC fought the urge to turn. He hadn't seen the ocean in so long.

"I used to live by the sea," he said and then stopped, stunned. He'd never told anyone that. Chris looked out towards the horizon, his gaze following JC's, and then he closed the distance between them, touched JC's face, turned him away from the ocean and back towards him.

JC sighed and tilted his chin up, moving closer so Chris could place his mouth against JC's neck, slide up to his mouth. He touched the collar of his shirt, loosening the ties that held the neck closed.

"It's so easy for you," Chris said quietly. "You make everything seduction."

"I know how to make people want," JC said. "I know pleasure, how to give it. You make me want to take it. Is that so bad?"

"I don't know," Chris said. He pulled JC closer. "You'll let me--," he said quietly.

"I want you," JC said.

Chris closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them JC could see wishes there, wishes he wanted to grant. Chris's mouth was tentative against his, almost hesitant. JC pressed closer and Chris smiled against his mouth, pushed him down to the ground. He held JC's wrists in his hands, pushing them up over his head. JC tested the grip once, pushing against Chris's hands. Chris pushed back, so hard that JC felt the bones in his wrists grind together. But Chris touched him gently everywhere else, gasped his name in wonder when he came, pulled him close afterwards.

JC looked up at the sky, saw the clouds move, floating into endless new shapes. Chris was locked around him, covering him everywhere. He didn't mind. He pushed against Chris's hands again and Chris let him go. JC put his arms around Chris's neck, his palms resting against Chris's back. He turned his face to look out at the ocean. Maybe he hadn't really seen it at all. Maybe it was too far away. Chris kissed his neck, and JC turned back towards him.

"If I leave, you'll come after me."

"Yes," Chris said, and got up. He took hold of one of JC's hands when they started walking again, fingers wrapped around his wrist.

You won't ask me to stay, JC thought, looking at the back of Chris's head. He was almost glad of it. He didn't know what his answer would be if Chris did, was a little afraid of it. He thought he should mind Chris holding him, keeping him beside him, and he did, a little. But he also liked the sight of Chris's skin against his. He didn't try to pull away. Chris didn't let go.

 

 

 

Watching Chris fish, JC thought it was a miracle he'd ever managed to catch anything. He was terrible at it. He stood too deep in the water and held the net too loosely. Occasionally he'd curse at the water and stomp around for a bit. The second time he did it, JC bit the inside of his lip so he wouldn't laugh.

"What?" Chris said. He didn't look mad, just exasperated.

"You're holding the net wrong," JC said. "Also, you're scaring away all the fish."

"I'm sure neither of those things are possible," Chris said, and smiled. "Especially me holding the net wrong."

JC laughed at that and Chris smiled more, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Come here and show me what to do," he said.

JC climbed off the rock he was sitting on and waded into the stream, showed Chris how to open the net up under water, angling it into the main stream current. Then he walked forward a bit and cupped his hands, holding them still and watching the water. He knew how to wait. When a fish swum into his hands he cupped his hands over it quickly and picked it up, ready to toss it onto the bank.

"See," he said triumphantly, "You can even do it without a net." Chris grinned at him, leaned over and nipped the tender skin at the top of his neck, right below his ear. JC gasped and dropped the fish.

"You'll have to do it again," Chris said. JC smiled and slid his wet hands under Chris's shirt, laughing when Chris shivered at the touch of his cold fingers.

"You do it," he said, and Chris nipped JC's neck again. JC could feel Chris's smile against his skin.

"You used to fish a lot," Chris said. It didn't sound like a question.

"A long time ago," JC said, sliding his fingers along Chris's spine "I thought I'd forgotten how."

"You can always remember the things you want to hold onto," Chris said. The skin on his back prickled as JC's fingers skated across it. His breath was quick and light and warm against JC's ear. JC smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

"You're hard to track," a voice said, low and angry, and JC turned around to see the Steward sitting on a horse at the edge of the stream. He looked furious. JC took a step back, startled, hearing water splash around him, and the Steward's eyes flickered to him, then went back to Chris. Chris looked startled, but only for a moment, and then his expression went carefully blank.

"Well," he said. "If it isn't the Lady's faithful lapdog, Joey. I thought she might send you to find me. I have to admit, I never thought you'd find this place though. I figured once you were two miles away from Britney you'd wither and die. You've probably been apart for what, five hours now? What a heroic sacrifice you've made, tracking me down."

The Steward smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "She's not the most forgiving woman in the world, Chris. And being her brother is only going to get you so far."

Brother, JC thought. Brother? Then it hit him like a blow. _Brother._

"I can't see how it's gotten me anywhere," Chris said. He must have felt JC's gaze on him because he looked at him for a moment, his face still horribly, utterly blank, and then his eyes flickered away, looked back at the Steward's. _I trained with my sister_ , JC remembered him saying, and recalled the shining gleam of a sword in Chris's hand, the way his arm moved. The answering similar movements of the Lady.

"I have to take him back," Joey said, glancing at JC again. "She...she needs him. You know that. Put revenge aside for just a moment and--just tell me what you want for him." Even the lines of his beard couldn't hide his frown.

"He," Chris said. "He? He's right here, Joe. JC. His name is JC."

"I should kill you," Joey told Chris, ignoring JC altogether. "For all the trouble you've caused--for. But Britney loves you. If you continue though--I'll take care of what she won't. And don't call me Joe."

Chris grinned at Joey, a terrible, vicious grin. "Promises, promises," he said.

Joey pulled a small cloth bag out of his saddlebags. "This is more than she paid for him," he said, glancing in JC's direction. "And it's definitely more than you deserve. I have to take him back."

Chris looked at him. JC stared back and felt sick, trapped. He took a step back. Chris's grin grew wider. JC turned his face away so he wouldn't have to look at it.

He heard Chris catch the bag. The coins clinked together. "Should I count it?" he asked lazily.

"Are you hurt?" Joey said, moving the horse over so he was right in front of JC, ignoring Chris. JC looked up at him, dazed. Joey's gaze widened a bit. "We can go," he said quietly.

"I have his robes," Chris said. "I doubt you want to take him back dressed like a peasant."

"Of course," Joey said. He looked over at Chris. "Go get them."

Chris laughed but waded out of the stream, disappeared up the path that led back to the house.

"Do you need help?" Joey asked quietly. JC looked at him again. He saw pity on Joey's face.

"No," he said, and waded out onto the bank. Joey offered to let him ride on the horse as they walked back up the cliff, but JC said no to that too. His pants were wet. He concentrated on how uncomfortably heavy they were and listened to Joey's horse breathing behind him. Her brother, he thought. Revenge.

His robes were sitting on the front step. He stared at them like he'd never seen them before, then started to take off his wet clothes. Joey cleared his throat.

"Oh," JC said, turning towards him. Joey's face was red. JC had forgotten he was there. He picked up the robes and went inside. Chris wasn't there.

He'd just finished tying the last knot in the outermost sash when he felt someone watching him. He looked up and saw Chris standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched by his sides.

"I thought you were gone," he said.

"Not--not yet," JC said. "You knew she would--you're her _brother_."

Chris stared at him, his face still expressionless, impossible to read. Outside, Joey's horse snorted restlessly.

"Do you need help?" Joey called.

JC shook his head, then realized Joey couldn't see him. "No," he said softly and then again louder. "No."

He stood there for a moment, waiting. He didn't know what, but he knew that he was. He looked at Chris's face again and felt something withering inside him. He was waiting for nothing. Chris wasn't even looking at him anymore, was staring at a point beside him, past him. JC opened the door.

"I--" Chris said. JC looked back at him. His face was strained, furious.

"You weren't supposed to--" Chris said.

"Find out?" JC said. Chris flinched, his gaze dropping away.

"You…" JC said. "Everything you said. Why? Why did you--?"

"I never said I deserved you." Chris said angrily, and pushed him outside. JC stumbled back. Chris's eyes met his briefly, too fast for JC to read and then all he saw was the closed door. He heard the bar drop into place. JC looked at the door for a moment and then walked over to Joey.

Joey had to help him into the saddle. JC let him. They rode into the forest. JC stared at every blade of grass, every tree.

"You didn't know," Joey said after a while.

"No," JC said. "I didn't know."

Joey didn't say anything else until they were within site of the Lady's house.

"Did you leave with him?"

JC shook his head and then realized Joey couldn't see him. He was walking a little in front of the horse, leading it up the road. The back of his tunic was wet with sweat.

"No," he said. "He--he came to the house. Before…when I said I got lost, he'd--." He knotted his hands together. "He wanted to ransom me. I--got away, left him tied up. He was--not happy about it."

Joey laughed, and turned back to look at him briefly. "You tied him up?" he said, and then laughed again.

JC folded his fingers together tighter.

"Oh," Joey said. "I didn't mean to--It's just. You don't seem like you could do something like…." He took a breath, looked back at the road. "When I saw you two, I thought that you -- you looked like--"

"I." JC said. "I thought that he wanted--" His voice cracked and he pushed his fingernails into his palms. "He didn't tell me the Lady was his sister. I didn't know he--it was just for revenge."

Joey sighed. "I won't…I'm not going to tell anyone. What I saw." He cleared his throat. "It looked -" The back of his neck was bright red. "Private."

JC looked up the road. The Lady's house was much closer.

"I can walk," he said. "You don't have to--"

"I know," Joey said and his voice was kind, so kind JC had to bite his lip. "I don't mind."

 


	15. Chapter 15

This time his return was noted. There were several servants outside, standing by the kitchen entrance. They looked at him surreptitiously as he passed by, Joey still leading the horse. Their heads were bent, but JC saw their mouths moving.

Joey walked inside with him. There were more servants in the hallway, dusting and polishing the floors. Most of them seem to be clustered in the area near JC's rooms.

"I'll send someone to you," Joey said loudly. "The Lady will be pleased you are safe." The servants rubbed the floor in a slow circular motion, carefully not looking in their direction.

"Thank you," JC said unsteadily. Joey bowed, low enough to show respect, and walked away. JC slid the door to his room open. As he closed it, he heard the scrape of feet along the floor, the low murmurs of voices talking. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He knew how gossip worked and he could tell what the servants were thinking. Everyone thought he'd run away. Everyone thought he'd chosen Chris.

He sat down on the floor. He very much wanted to put his head in his hands and close his eyes. He got up and went over to the dresser instead. The other red sash was still there, wedged between the frame and the wall. He rolled it up and placed it in the incense burner. It smelled terrible when it burned, sharp and bitter. He watched it smolder, fold up at the edges and turn into soft ash.

It was almost done burning when Boy came in. JC heard his voice in the hall first, high and fast as he said something to one of the servants that was still lingering. Boy's face was flushed when he walked in.

"I bought you something to eat," he said, and passed JC a bowl of rice. JC took it and looked at it for a moment, started to put it on the floor. Boy went over to the incense burner, his nose wrinkling at the smell. He dumped it out the window. A voice hollered up at him, indignant.

"Sorry," Boy said. "I didn't see you there." He turned and smiled at JC.

JC ate the rice. It stuck in his throat, but he ate all of it. Boy told him about a group of monks that had visited the village.

"They were from the big temple, the one in the South," he said. "They had books. They let me see them." He sounded very impressed.

JC listened to him talk. After a while, the footsteps in the hall echoed farther and farther away.

"I know you didn't run away," Boy said quietly, and then started talking about the books again. The bottoms of his feet were dirty.

JC smiled at him. "Tell me about the first book again," he said.

 

 

 

The summons from the Lady came in the afternoon. JC had bathed, Boy hovering over him, asking him if he need more soap or an extra towel, frowning when JC said he didn't care what he wore.

"She wants to see you," Boy said after a servant had knocked on the door and he'd gone out into the hall, returning with his face shining with a mix of curiosity and worry. JC nodded at him and looked down at his robes. They really were beautiful, he thought. He absolutely hated them.

As he opened the door, Boy grabbed his hand, pressed something into it. "For luck," he said, and the words whistled through his teeth. His hair was sticking up in the back, a child's cowlick. JC smiled and didn't smooth it down.

In the hall, he opened his hand. He was holding a toy frog, the edges dirty with grit and wear. It was crudely carved and had obviously been played with frequently. It was probably Boy's most treasured possession. JC slid it into his pocket and followed the servant walking in front of him.

I don't need luck, he thought. He touched the edges of the frog anyway, feeling the wooden surface slip under his fingers. I don't need it, he thought again, but wished he'd had it. He wished for a lot of things, and knew why he hadn't bothered to before. It was too painful.

 

 

 

The Lady was waiting for him in her rooms. JC passed her dresser on the way in. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at him, slid open the door to the Lady's bedchamber. JC ignored her and walked inside, sank down to the floor and rested his head against it. He could hear the Lady breathing.

"Thank you," she said. "You can leave us." The door slid closed behind him. He heard the dresser's footsteps echo across the floor and out into the hallway.

"You can rise," the Lady said. JC lifted his head up. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, watching him. She had her brother's gift for silence, JC thought. He didn't see any other resemblance between them. She pushed her hair behind her ears. He thought of the skin behind Chris's ears, the way he shivered when JC had kissed his neck. JC rested his hands on his knees.

"You know Chris is my brother," she said. JC nodded, his throat tight.

"Did you leave with him?" she said.

JC shook his head.

She arched an eyebrow at him. Now he saw a resemblance.

"He was going to hold me for ransom," he said. "Once before. I got away. He said he owed me."

"That's what the Steward said. He's not a very good liar though." Her mouth quirked up in a small, private smile.

JC pressed his hands into his thighs. "I slept with him," he said quietly.

"Willingly," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"More than once."

"Yes."

"But you came back."

"Yes."

She folded her hands in her lap. "Chris has--he was always a dreamer."

JC blinked. He didn't think that was a very good description. The Lady saw his face, and smiled.

"He came to see me yesterday," she said. "I went into the village, to visit the temple. He was waiting for me. He wanted to know--" She broke off. "I asked if he knew where you were. He said he didn't. I didn't believe him. We had--an argument and one of my guards…they can be overzealous."

"He was hurt," JC said sharply.

She stared at him so intensely that JC turned his face away for a moment, even though he wasn't supposed to.

"Yes," she said. "He was. The Empress wants me to capture and hang him. He knows that. Sometimes I think he--" She leaned forward a little. "He's never lied to me before," she said. "He lied about you. Do you know why?"

"No."

She tapped her fingers against her knees. Now he wondered how he'd managed not to notice that she and Chris were related. The resemblance was everywhere.

"Where did he take you?"

JC kept his voice steady when he spoke. "A house."

She blinked once, slowly. "A house," she said. "Small? On the edge of a cliff?"

He nodded. She blinked again. "It's--my mother left it to him when she died. I didn't know he--he took you there?"

"Yes."

"I grew up there," she said. "We both did. Our father--my mother bought him in the city when she was very young. She didn't have any children with her husband, so she made me her heir. The day she told me she gave me a robe, one she had specially made for my first trip to the city. Chris was so --" She broke off for a moment. "It was--a shock. To everyone. She was very fond of Chris and I think he thought--he never realized that only women could--" She paused again. "He told you this," she said.

"No," JC said. "He didn't."

"What did he tell you?"

 _You mean something to me_ , JC thought. "He told me he had a sister."

"He didn't tell you anything else?"

JC shook his head. He didn't want to talk about Chris anymore.

She stared at him again. Her gaze was unsettling, too familiar. JC looked down. Her hands were crossed in her lap, and he saw the tattoos on the insides of her wrists, spiraling red and blue. JC realized where he'd seen the design on Chris's neck, on the screen of the room he kept closed, before. He wished he'd never left the city.

"I'm going to have a child," she said, and the smile she gave him when he looked at her, stunned, made him think of Chris all over again, the way he'd watched JC with his mouth curled into a faint, mocking line. He thought of the last time he'd seen the Lady, the way she'd kept resting a hand against her stomach. There were signs for everything. He'd missed all of them.

 _She needs him,_ Joey had told Chris. _You know that._

"Chris knew," he said.

"I told him when I saw him," she said. "And he had you and knew that I needed--" she broke off.

"A baby," JC said quietly. "And you--"

"I want you to say you're the father. After the baby's born--I have a farm, outside the village. Even after I get married you--you'll always have a place to live."

A place of his own forever. Everything he'd dreamed of in the city, when he wanted to get away from the brothel, from being trapped inside the walls of the pleasure quarter. He should have realized there were walls everywhere.

"What about Joey?" he said.

"The Steward," she said sharply, "isn't your concern."

JC looked at the floor.

"I love him," she said quietly. "He loves me. I'm not going to-- I protect what's mine. I promise you that you will always be safe. I just need you to--"

"If I say no?"

She folded her hands together. "I'll have someone take you back to the city. You're still young. A brothel would buy you. I might get back most of the money I spent on you."

JC looked at her. He could see Chris in her eyes, the ruthless light of her gaze.

"Are you going to kill him?" he asked.

Her hands twitched in her lap. He could tell he'd startled her, but it didn't show on her face.

"I don't know," she said. "If I have to. Will he come for you again?"

_I never said I deserved you._

"No," JC said. "He got what he wanted."

 

"Then you have to make a choice," she said. "You can stay, or you can go."

JC smiled at her, let his anger show on his face. A choice, she'd said. She didn't look away from him. Chris would have. JC would have thought that meant he cared.

"I'll stay," he said.

She smiled at him. It was a lovely smile. It didn't move him. There was nothing in it for him. He was used to that. It was reassuring. What had lurked in Chris's eyes, his smile, was something different, something JC hadn't seen in anyone else. He'd believed in it.

He was very good at making mistakes, it seemed.

 


	16. Chapter 16

JC suspected that everyone already knew about the baby. Still, the villagers acted surprised when the Lady shared the news publicly, taking JC to the village with her so they could pray at the temple and offer sacrifices for a safe delivery. She rode in the carriage with him this time, sitting across from him in loose robes dyed the color of cherry blossoms. JC had been given a new set of clothes to match hers, darker with her family crest painted across the back. The villagers didn't cheer, but some of them did smile at her when she greeted them and a few old women gave her charms to ensure a healthy delivery. They still mostly ignored him though, and bowed very politely to the Steward. JC didn't blame them. He felt sorry for the man the Lady was set to marry.

He heard nothing about Chris and finally asked Boy if he knew anything, waking him up when he got back to his rooms one night. Boy was less prone to ask questions when he was tired.

"Have there--have there been any attacks recently?"

"Attacks?" Boy said and yawned, rubbing his eyes. He took the robe JC handed him and folded it carefully, slid it into the dresser.

"Bandits."

"Oh." Boy said. He was awake now. He glanced at JC. JC focused on untying the sash of the other robe he was wearing.

"No," Boy said. "I heard that--hold on, I'll do that." He came over and untied the knot for JC. "You don't have to worry," he said. "I heard that the Steward went to--" He paused, rolled the sash up in his hands.

"Chris," JC said. "You can say his name."

Boy looked over his shoulder at the door and then turned back to JC. "The Steward went to get the money back that he gave Chris for you…" He glanced at JC.

"You knew about that?"

Boy shrugged, and JC gritted his teeth. Sometimes he wanted to shake Boy. But it wasn't his fault that everybody knew everything. Nothing was his fault. He sighed.

"He didn't get the money."

"No. Chris--" Boy made a fluttering motion with his hand, a bird flying away.

"He's gone," JC said. Boy nodded.

"Do you want some tea?" Boy asked. "Something to eat?"

"No," JC said. "I'm fine." Boy sighed and went back out into the hallway. He started snoring again a few minutes later. JC lay down and stared at the ceiling. Chris was gone. He wouldn't ever have to see him again. He didn't have anything to worry about.

He couldn't quite remember Chris's smile. He'd seen it, Chris smiling up at him as JC pushed inside him, tilting his head back as JC pressed his mouth to his neck, the corners of his mouth lifting up, his lips parting when he touched JC's skin.

I'm glad I'm forgetting, he thought, and watched the sun rise. It was so bright he had to close his eyes. He still didn't sleep.

 

 

 

He was with the Lady when she told the Empress's messenger about the baby. It went a little better than the visit to the village. Court protocol was too formal to really address gossip in any direct fashion. The messenger had asked when the Lady was due and then said, "How fortunate that you didn't discover you were pregnant until after your Beloved was returned."

The Lady smiled, but JC saw one hand, resting on her knee under the table, curl into a fist. "It was fortunate to have two such fortuitous events occur." She gestured for JC to sit next to her. "When he returned, I was--" She blushed and lowered her eyes. "Happiness tends to make one incautious."

"Indeed," the messenger said, and turned to JC. "How distressing it must have been for you, being taken away from your home. I hope the ordeal wasn't too trying?"

 _His Lady came to rescue him, of course, but not until after the bandit had ravished him to the audience's satisfaction_ , JC thought, and bowed his head. "I was delighted to be returned," he said, and touched his neck gently with one hand, stroking over his throat. "May I pour you some more wine?"

The messenger nodded, staring at his neck. JC poured her another cup and whispered polite pleasantries into her ear, words that hinted at desire.

"How very lucky you are," she said to the Lady, and launched into a story about her visits to the pleasure quarter, watching JC closely, a lascivious smile on her face.

"Indeed," the Lady said. The smile she gave JC was genuine, relieved. He wished he could hate her.

He wished he could hate Chris too, was occasionally able to think of him angrily at odd moments, walking through a hallway and smelling the scent of frying fish, sitting in the garden, watching servants peer at him curiously. But most of the time he couldn't think of Chris at all. It was too painful.

Very few men had visited the pleasure quarter--the occasional actor, guardsman, or wealthy merchant's husband or son. There'd been a few that were handsome and being with them had always been exciting, thrilling. Once a merchant's son had come to visit JC every week, twice a week, for three months. JC had waited for him to arrive, let him stay the night for free, found himself thinking of the man while he was with others or during his lessons. He mentioned it to one of the other courtesans one day; spoke of the young man as his lover. The other courtesan had stared at him, his painted eyebrows rising up to his hairline.

"A lover?" he said, and laughed. "What's that going to get you? Either his money will run out or he'll find someone else." He bent forward and JC noticed a few strands of gray in the courtesan's hair, the powder that had been brushed across his face to smooth out lines. "Listen to me," he said. "Don't think you're happy, don't think you'll stay here and that everything will work out. It won't. It never does."

JC ignored him and continued to welcome the merchant's son with open arms and an open heart. He stopped coming and JC saw him a few weeks later at another assignation house, smiling at someone else. He'd looked right through JC as he'd passed by. It was then JC finally understood why everyone he knew laughed about love in spite of all the songs they sang about it, all the words they spoke proclaiming it. It wasn't something someone like him could believe in. He wished he'd remembered that.

The Empress's messenger asked that he be sent to her rooms at the end of the meal, whispering loudly to the Lady as JC knelt, pretending he couldn't hear what he was asking.

"I'm afraid I can't," the Lady said. "Please don't think I'm inhospitable. I just--" She turned and smiled at JC. "I always want to keep what's mine."

"Of course," the messenger murmured. "He is very…delightful." She smiled at JC, her eyes greedy and wondering. JC bowed his head and stared at his fingers.

When the messenger left the room the Lady sighed and rubbed her back. Her stomach pressed against her robes, and she smoothed a hand across it, closed her eyes briefly.

"Thank you," he said.

She looked at him. "Chris is easy to love," she said. "When I was little--he was my entire world. I thought he knew everything."

"He didn't," JC said.

"No," she said softly, and touched his hand. "He didn't."

 


	17. Chapter 17

He stopped counting days after the forty-fifth one, not knowing why he was counting, afraid of what he was hoping for. The number of visitors slowed down, no doubt reassured by the fact that the Lady's marriage was set for the spring and that the trouble with her lands had ceased. JC had whole stretches of time in which he had nothing to do. He started going outside again. At first he didn't venture past the garden, and then later he stayed on the path that led towards the village, sometimes walking down till he could see the beginning of it, smell the scents of cooking fires and see the thatched roofs. The rickety fence that rested at the beginning of the path was still standing, but he never stopped there to rest. He never went into the forest.

He saw the Lady and the Steward one afternoon as he wandered along the edge of her lands, right along the edge of the forest, up by where the mountain started to curve up even steeper. JC had taken his shoes off and was looking down at the Lady's house. He could see the kitchens, the guards. There was the path into the forest. He turned his head away and saw the bright gilt of the Lady's hair. She was standing still, looking up at the mountain. The Steward was behind her, his head resting on top of hers.

She said something and JC heard the Steward laugh, saw his hand cup her belly, smoothing up over the curve of it. She leaned back into his touch more, trusting him to hold her up. The Steward turned his head a bit, saw JC out of the corner of his eyes. His smile didn't change. He nodded his head a little.

"I'm worried," JC heard the Lady say. "The birth, and then afterwards--promise me you'll be there."

"I promise," the Steward said, and turned back towards her, pressing his lips to the top of her head. "You know I love you."

"I know," she said, and JC saw her rest her hand on top of the Steward's, both of them circling her belly. She sounded so happy.

JC turned around and walked back to the house. He'd wondered what would happen after the baby was born. He'd thought that maybe the Lady would be like his own mother, a silent absent presence, but realized that no, she wouldn't. He didn't think she'd ever forget the child she was carrying, even if she was supposed to. He thought of the way she said _I know_ when the Steward said 'I love you,' and wondered what it was like, that surety, that knowing.

Boy was waiting for him when he got back to the house. He brought JC a cup of tea and told him about a dog in the stables that had just had puppies, then launched into a story about the new girl that worked in the kitchen and how she hadn't know how to make tea, how he'd had to show her.

"She said you could make it," Boy said and laughed. "But don't worry--I told her how the household works."

This will be my life, JC thought, and took a sip of his tea. He wouldn't ever have to do anything except keep the Lady happy.

"You know," he said, "No one has to--I can make my own tea. I don't mind."

Boy smiled at him. "What?" he said, and laughed. "Why would you? You don't have to. You're not supposed to."

JC thought of Chris, smiling at him when JC handed him a cup. Of himself, measuring tea into a cup and watching it steep.

"Never mind," he said. "Thank you for looking out for me."

Boy smiled at him. "Of course," he said. "I know what you are."

JC took another sip of his tea. It was hot and bitter. He asked Boy if any guests were visiting and handed him his cup when he was done, told him to take it back to the kitchen. He didn't have to do anything.

 


	18. Chapter 18

The letter came in a packet of correspondence for the Lady. Boy came in and gave it to him, turning it over in his hands, awe in his face at the way JC's name was printed carefully across it. "I was very careful with it," he said proudly. JC smiled at him and took it, sat down to read. His hands were shaking.

It was from his father. His father had never written him before. JC was ashamed that he was disappointed when he broke open the letter and saw his father's name signed at the bottom. He looked at the seal. It had been broken open before, he saw, and carefully melted back into place.

"The Lady read it first," he said. Boy shrugged and scratched his head.

"Who else would write to me?" JC said sharply.

"She reads everything," Boy said simply. "Besides, no one usually writes to anyone but her."

"Have any other letters come for me?"

Boy looked at him. "No." JC couldn't tell if he was lying or not.

"I don't know why you'd want--"Boy said. "He killed people. He was mean to you." He sounded plaintive, like the child he was.

"Have any other letters come for me?" JC asked again. His fingers were pressing against the letter so tightly he could feel the paper starting to give under his hand.

"No," Boy said loudly. He blew out a breath and tapped one foot against the floor.

"You can go," JC said.

Boy frowned and started to say something else. He stopped when he saw the look on JC's face and left the room.

His father's writing was stiff, oddly formal. He wrote that he hoped JC was well. He congratulated him on the baby. He said he was doing well, that the weather had been nice. JC closed his eyes for a moment.

The letter continued. His mother had fallen ill. His father would be journeying to her estate, leaving at the end of the next month. His father hadn't seen his mother in years. JC folded the letter closed and looked at the stamp that marked it, the sign that a messenger had picked it up for delivery. It had taken a long time for the letter to reach him. His father had already left. He opened the letter and read again.

His mother was not expected to recover. His father wrote that he was looking forward to seeing her once more. JC crumpled the letter up in his hands, dropped it on the floor. He went out to the garden.

When his mother grew tired of his father and ended their liaison she hadn't set him free. She could have--she'd paid for JC to be taken to the city, which ended her obligations to him and to his father. But she'd let his father stay in the house she'd bought for him, sent him a small monthly stipend. In return his father would be expected to die when she did, kill himself as part of the ritual mourning sacrifice, a show of loyalty to her and her family name. It was a common enough custom. JC wasn't surprised by it. He'd expected his own life to end that way. It was just--he looked up at the sky.

"It's not fair," he said quietly. Over his head, the clouds shifted position, formed new shapes. He wondered if his father was still alive.

Boy found him outside later, still sitting looking up at the sky. "The Lady wants to see you," he said. "She has guests."

JC nodded and went inside. The letter was still where he left it. He got dressed and went to greet the Lady's guests.

The visitors were from the family the Lady was marrying into. They had a picture of her betrothed. It was a stylized portrait, showing a perfect gentleman, pale and long-necked, with hair that was neatly combed back into a scholar's knot. The Lady was polite and charming, but clearly rattled by the letter she was given, greetings from her betrothed. She rose awkwardly to retrieve it, motioned for JC to assist her. There was a noise in the hallway, the sound of something falling to the floor. Her face went pale for a moment and then she smiled broadly, her voice rising as she expressed her delight at joining such an illustrious family. JC was ignored by the guests, though they did ask the Lady when the baby was due, glancing covertly in his direction.

"Not long," the Lady said politely, and placed a hand on JC's wrist. It was bad luck to name exact dates. "My Beloved will be moving out of the house soon. My Steward will go with him, to make sure he's settled."

The visitors nodded, clearly pleased by the news that their relative would be marrying into a family where duty was understood. The Lady sat back down. Her hand was still on JC's wrist. She didn't hold him, just wrapped her fingers loosely around his skin. He could have pulled away, but there was no need to. She didn't want to restrain him.

The Steward was waiting out in the hallway as he left, staring at a broken bowl on the floor. The side of his hand was dark with dried blood. There were drops of it on the floor, scattered on the broken pottery.

"She wishes to see you," JC said.

"They had a picture with them," the Steward said quietly, fiercely. "What does he look like?"

JC stared at him helplessly. "It wasn't--it wasn't a real picture. Just a--"

The Steward nodded, then got up. JC watched him slide the door open and walk into the room. The Lady was still sitting at the table, head bowed. She looked up as the Steward walked into the room. Her face was glistening in the light, her eyes bright and wide.

He read the rest of the letter when he got back to his rooms. His father's house would be donated to the local temple, an offering in JC's mother's name. I know you will always honor your mother's name, his father wrote. I am sure she will be proud to hear me speak of you.

JC remembered his father when he'd come back from the city, how thin he was, the way he coughed at night, slow and deep. He'd needed the money JC's contract gave him, the ceremonial release money offered for JC's purchase. He remembered how his father's face had looked when he'd been given the money, how he'd looked at JC helplessly, then bowed low to thank the broker. He thought of his father's house, the quiet shabbiness of it, the neat empty rooms. He had never been released, never been free to do more than wait for JC's mother to summon him. He'd never had anyone to turn to, to rely on. JC had done the best he could, tried to make sure he was provided for. He folded the letter. Boy came in to help him undress.

"Do you need anything else?" Boy said when he was done. He was biting his lip, looking worried.

JC shook his head. Outside, the wind was blowing. He put the letter on the windowsill.

In the morning it was gone.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Boy gave him the other letter two days later. He came into the room in the morning, carrying JC's just washed robes in his hands. His face was dirty.

"You have to remember to wash your face," JC said. Boy made a face at him. He didn't like bathing as much as JC did.

"What if you got dirt on the robes?" JC said. Boy blushed and mumbled under his breath.

"Sorry."

JC smiled at him. Boy put the robes away, fiddling with the drawer.

"Here," he finally said, and pulled a packet free from between the robes, thrusting it at JC.

JC took it. It was heavy. His name was written on it in a slanting, unfamiliar hand. His heart was pounding.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

Boy mumbled something else.

"What?" JC said.

"Someone gave it to me," Boy said. "A few days after you got back."

"Who?"

Boy sighed.

JC touched a hand to the symbols that spelled out his name. "What did he say?"

"To give this to you." Boy fidgeted, curling his toes.

"And?"

"I didn't think I should," Boy said mutinously. "You--you were sad! And I told him that."

JC looked at him.

"He said I was good to you," Boy said quietly. "And then he left."

JC opened the packet. Inside was a long roll of red fabric. JC pulled it free, his breath catching. Inside the sash was a roll of coins, neatly strung together. It lay heavy in his hand.

Boy sucked in a breath.

"You can go," JC said.

Boy looked at him.

"You can go," JC said again.

When Boy was gone he put the money down on the floor. He picked up the sash and unrolled it, folded it across his hands. There were creases in the cloth, the ends wrinkled. He looked over at the money. There was a lot of it. JC didn't know much about money, but he knew that there was enough there to take him wherever he wanted to go. He could leave.

And where would he go? What would he do?

 _You can do anything,_ Chris had said. JC had believed him, believed the look in his eyes. He folded the money into the cloth and slid it into the dresser. He didn't try to hide it.

He was writing when Boy found him later, copying out poems carefully, making sure his brushstrokes were long and even. It was soothing.

Boy came over and looked at the paper. "That's so beautiful," he said. "I always wanted to learn how to--" and bit his lip. "I came to see if you wanted me to get the tub."

"Thank you," JC said. "You can." He looked at Boy, the curious light in his eyes, the way his eyes traced the movements of JC's brush. When he came back, JC read the poem to him, pointed out the symbols. He let Boy keep the paper.

 

 

 

He saw the Steward as he was out walking later. He'd crossed the path that led down into the village, was heading back towards the house.

"You can go into the village, you know," the Steward said.

"I know, uh --"

"Joey," the Steward said and fell into step beside him. "I've never liked titles much. They can fit anyone."

JC looked at him, but the Steward was staring at the path. They walked in silence for a few minutes.

"The baby will be here soon," JC finally said.

Joey grunted and folded his hands into the sleeves of his tunic. "I've never been to a farm before."

"It's not that far away. And she--I don't think she'll forget about--"

Joey glanced over at him, then shrugged his shoulders. "She's getting married. She'll have other children. She--"

"She loves you," JC said. "You can see it every time she looks at you."

"Not every time," Joey said sharply, and then sighed. "I hope the baby's a girl."

JC nodded. "Girls have more choices."

"Yes," Joey said and looked up towards the house, squinting into the sunshine. "They do."

 


	20. Chapter 20

The Lady's confinement date grew closer. Guests weren't allowed to visit anymore. She asked JC to come and sing to her sometimes, humming along with him under her breath. She had a pretty voice. She showed him the robe she'd made for the baby once, unfolded it with careful gentle hands and asked him what he thought.

"It's beautiful," he said. It was. It was so small.

"All of it--it's nothing like I thought it would be," she said, and touched her stomach. "It's so much more special."

JC sang her another song. She rubbed a hand along her stomach and he could see the baby kick against her, moving, testing its body. She asked him if he wanted to feel it when she saw where he was looking. He shook his head no.

Boy was waiting for him when he got back, handed him a bowl of soup and put his shoes away.

"What do you want to be?" JC asked him.

Boy blinked, smoothing down the ribbons of JC's shoes before closing the drawer.

"To serve you."

"No," JC said, impatient. "If you could do anything."

"A priest," Boy said, and hung his head, blushing. "The temples. The books. They know--they must know everything. The gods listen to them."

JC went over to the dresser. The roll of coins was still inside. He pressed it into Boy's hands.

"Don't go to the city," he said. "The south. That's where you need to go. The monks you met, when they came to the village--all the big temples are in the south, at the end of the great road the Empress built. I met people from there, sometimes. They always said the weather was nice."

" I can't," Boy said. His eyes were wide, far away. He was young enough to dream, to see a future that could be anything.

"You can," JC said. "You will. Make sure you say prayers for me."

Boy hesitated, then folded the money into his hand. He hugged JC suddenly, fiercely. He was bony. His hair smelled like sun and straw and sweat.

"Thank you," he said, and bowed low, touching his head to the floor, the bow that conveyed the most honor. JC looked at him. "You didn't wash your face today," he said.

Boy grinned at him.

 

 

 

He was gone in the morning. JC waited to tell someone till late in the evening, till after the Lady had summoned him and he'd sung for her, watched her sit with one hand on her stomach, dreaming.

"Gone?" she said when JC told her. "Where?"

"I don't know," JC said, "I thought maybe you sent him to the village." He missed Boy already, his chatter, his shy smiles when JC praised him.

"He didn't come to see you all day," the Lady said. "You didn't think anything of this?"

JC looked at her.

"No," he said.

"I won't send someone to find him," she said slowly. "Would you like me to arrange for someone else to serve you?"

JC shook his head. "It's not necessary," he said. "My needs are few."

The Lady hummed under her breath, a low sound. "Sing me another song," she said. "And then you can go."

  


	21. Chapter 21

JC had finally gotten used to walking through the village. It was much smaller than he thought it would be and it first it had disappointed him, how little there was to see. But now he liked it, the way he could note everything and notice what had changed. A few people nodded to him as he walked by and one person, an old woman with a broad sunny grin that reminded him of Boy, bowed to him as he passed. At the end of the village the road split, one path leading down towards the valley, the other heading into the forest. JC hesitated for a moment.

 _I am not afraid_ , he thought, and looked back the way he'd come, saw the top of the Lady's house in the distance.

He walked into the forest.

It was cooler there, and quieter. The path was narrow and muddy, and his robes trailed in the dirt. The Lady's dresser had to wash them now. She didn't like doing it. She didn't like him. He twitched the fabric, watched mud spatter on the hems. He smiled a little.

There was a peasant walking towards him, a large straw basket strapped to his back. He was wearing a fisherman's hat, broad-brimmed. He stopped walking when JC smiled and stood there, watching him. The line of his jaw looked familiar.

JC stared at him, then looked down at the ground. When he looked up again, the peasant was still there. He knew who it was. He'd know Chris anywhere. Everything inside him was shaking.

"Running away?" Chris said.

"No," JC said sharply. "I don't need to do that."

Chris smiled and JC hadn't forgotten his smile at all, had remembered the faint mocking cast of it too well, perfectly, and there it was, right in front of him. He curled his hands into his robes. He didn't trust himself.

Chris took a step towards him and then stopped, pushed his hat back.

"I've always wanted to see the ocean," he said, and touched the hat with one hand. "What do you think? All I need is a net, right?"

"The Lady can't help what she is," JC said. "Who she is. You--you blame her for too much."

"Yes," Chris said. "I did...I do."

"You shouldn't have come back. The baby. She's getting married. She's--it's not easy for her."

"I know," Chris said. "I don't care. I didn't…I didn't come back because of her. I came back--" He paused, drew in a breath. "I came back to see you. To ask you--you've never had a choice. I know I--I never gave you one." He was tapping one foot against the ground, restless. He looked everywhere but at JC.

"You didn't," JC said.

"No," Chris said, and looked at him then, a brief glance, burning in its intensity. "I didn't. But I can. I will." He took a step towards JC, and then another. JC stood there, watching until Chris was close, close enough to touch him, and then he looked away.

When he looked back, Chris was still there, standing right next to him. He wasn't smiling.

"Come with me," he said. His hands were shaking. JC reached out and touched one of them with his own. Chris stared at him, wide-eyed. He started to pull his hand away and then stopped.

"JC," he said quietly, and let their fingers lace together. "Come with me," he said again. His voice was unsteady, pained.

JC closed his eyes. He could hear Chris breathing. His fingers were warm against JC's skin.

"Your home," JC said, and opened his eyes, took a step back, pulling away. "What you lived for. Revenge. You don't--you'd give it all up? You don't mean it."

"I don't lie," Chris said, and then flushed darkly, his mouth twisting when he saw JC's face.

"I lie," he said. "But I--I mean it. I could--"

"You could what?" JC said, and stared at Chris's face, his throat. He wanted--he folded his hands into his palms. He knew what he wanted, a thousand different things, all of them terrible and beautiful and frightening. All of them tied to one person.

Chris looked at him for a moment, his eyes bright, and then he looked away. "I could make a home with you anywhere, " he said, and his face flushed even darker.

"I'm not--" he said. "I'm not good at this. I don't know what to say--what to--I want to make you smile. I don't care about what I had. It wasn't--it never made me happy. You. You did. You could."

"I could," JC said faintly. "If I wanted to." He looked at Chris.

Chris was watching him. "If you wanted to," he said. His voice was hesitant, quiet. His hands were still shaking.

JC took a step towards him.

"I can do anything," he said. It didn't feel like a lie.

"Yes," Chris said. "You can."

 


	22. Chapter 22

In the north the ocean was grayer, the waves choppier. But it was still as broad and endless as JC remembered, and the waves still broke open noisily on the shore, the water cold against his feet. The wind was blowing and the air smelled like salt and sand.

"It's beautiful," he breathed and closed his eyes, felt the water's spray on his face.

"It is," Chris said.

JC opened his eyes. Chris was looking at him.

JC smiled and reached out, brushed his fingers against Chris's. After a moment, Chris's fingers wrapped around his gently, loosely. They stood there silently, looking out at the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Archived from JustSoPretty


End file.
